Tyrant's Eyes
by Draconos13
Summary: (OC PROTAGONIST, COLLABORATION STORY) The Umbrella Corporation finds a great scientific opportunity in the genetics of David Wellington, a simple truck driver stationed on Rockfort Island. David is quickly pulled away from his job and forced to become a Tyrant, an icon of Umbrella's beliefs. How will David see the world, and the world him, as something beyond human?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, everyone. Here is a series combining multiple elements of "Resident Evil" games together into what I hope will be an interesting story.**

**The Fanfiction user "RT86" is working with me on this story, providing a lot of ideas for this from the start.**

DISCLAIMER: "Resident Evil", and all the characters or places mentioned in this story, is produced and published by Capcom. The author and the user "RT86" own the OC "David Wellington" mentioned in this story.

**Onward!**

* * *

**[20:42 PM]**

"You are certain of this?"

"Positive, Sir." Fingers clack across the keyboard, the sound coming through the cellular phone as the thin white coat-wearing scientist holding it cycles through pages of text. "The sequencing is nearly perfect Tyrant material. The numbers are showing 95% mutation potential."

"And this is the most recent genetic sample from this person?"

"It was taken four days ago, Sir. That was the most recent day we collected the genomes from the facility staff."

A thin tongue wets dried lips. The man on the other end of the phone call, one of the many "suits" who are the one of his corporation's faces, leans back in his chair. This prompts a creaking noise from the leather object that only he can hear. He digests the scientist's information with careful interest before asking, "How long has this employee been sampled?"

The scientist opens another file on the computer, a dossier with biographical information and an attached photo. Almost a minute goes by before an answer is given: "They registered the same day as everyone else three months ago."

Sunlight shines through the large window of the suit's office, but his gaze stays on his desk and the small piles of papers arranged on it. Appearing random to an outside viewer, to the man they are in the required symmetry. Each file has the icon of his corporation, a red and white umbrella, stamped or printed somewhere on it.

"If it's been three months since they registered," the suit asks the scientist, "why has it taken this long to judge compatibility? Have any other samples been as successful?"

The scientist flinches, tensing his shoulders and hoping to heaven the suit isn't too upset. "We've been delayed with testing the samples, Sir. The higher-ups are more focused on this facility's defense than its research right now."

The suit takes in a breath to argue, but then he remembers he is speaking to someone in a more isolated part of the world. Updating defenses when you feel threatened is a perfectly logical response by corporate rules. He mentally files away the task of reviewing this facility's purpose later, despite the possible hours of work it will pile onto his already-burdened plate. He knows it is on a tropical island in the South Pacific Ocean, but the reason _why_ it's there, or _which_ island among the possible thousands it could be, is beyond him.

The scientist clears his throat after pressing a few more keys. "The previous two samples from this person have been tested as well," he says. "They showed 30% and 33% compatibility, respectively. The difference between those samples and this latest one is three weeks."

The suit frowns. "You are supposed to be taking those samples on a weekly period. That is in your team's contract."

"As I said, Sir, the commanders are more focused on repairing facility damage and monitoring the perimeter right now. We've all asked Sir Ashford for more medical supplies, but all our requests have been rejected." The scientist pauses to catch his breath. "Sir Ashford doesn't know about this, actually. His priorities as of recently have shifted in strange ways."

The suit's hand holding the phone twitches, one finger tapping against the phone's casing. This accusation against a high-ranking executive like Alfred Ashford is normally grounds for disciplinary action, perhaps even forced labor. But even though the suit would never admit it to anyone, the fact this scientist took the time to call him personally is something worth bragging about. He's been shown some secret, a fact kept hidden from the rest of the island, perhaps even the rest of Umbrella! The bad parts seem to balance out with the good in the suit's mind.

This claim appears worth the risk.

The suit briefly considers jumping on board right now but holds back. The possibility of this all being random coincidence keeps him from instantly calling his immediate superior. He has the power to get more people interested in this – that's why the scientist called him in the first place – but he needs to use that power wisely.

"A Tyrant is a valuable asset," the suit says, both men understanding to some extent what that value means. "I cannot allow the spending of Umbrella's resources on a simple coincidence, which is what this is sounding like to me. The accusations against a corporate executive are another matter entirely."

"This could be another Sergei Vladimir, Sir." The scientist's curt remark knocks the suit off guard as he continues. "This man has 22% greater compatibility with the T-strain than the Colonel's DNA did. The DNA Vladimir provided to the R&D and science teams made the 1 to 10 million odds of successful Tyrant creation into a much more reasonable number."

The suit's stomach flutters. He also remembers the Colonel, the elite Captain of the Guard and leader of the "Monitors" security team. The Soviet executive had certainly been helpful before his untimely demise with the fall of the "Talos" project. "So," he asks the scientist, "you think that success might happen again?"

"Yes, Sir. With some extra equipment and medical supplies, we can find the exact code. There is a lot of potential here, or I wouldn't have called you about it."

The suit stares up at the white ceiling of his windowed office. The words "a lot of potential" ignites his imagination in what ways it can be used. These genes can help create a new Bio Organic Weapon once combined with computer programming. If a new Tyrant is created, that will show investors the corporation is growing with the times. It might even help wash away some of the fallback from the Raccoon City failure…

"Continue your research as you are able," he tells the scientist. "Keep an eye for any further high-compatibility samples among the staff. If you get enough evidence to warrant a test, do so immediately." A few files on the suit's desk are pulled out with one hand as he speaks, his brain already imagining how he will phrase this discovery in a report.

"You will get your supplies," the suit continues as he takes out a notepad and pen to write down a few specific points before he gets too excited. "If you have the chance before your testing begins, I recommend sending a personal report to a server in one of our main bases, away from the South Pacific. Have a good day."

The scientist holds his own cell phone up to his ear for a few moments after the call is cut. When he is sure he will get no further comments from the suit, he slowly puts the device into his coat pocket. His eyes skim the usual legal jargon of the opened dossier for anything else unusual. If he can find extra information to put into his report, it will certainly catapult this discovery into a prominent position. Maybe, if things aligned perfectly, a prominent member of the R&D team would personally visit the facility to review the findings.

The man cracks a smile at his own thought. _This is Rockfort Island, dunderhead. No one comes here unless ordered, or if they want to get away from the world_. He looks at the dossier's attached photo, showing a frontal and side view of a man with a small goatee, pale skin, and a thin stature. Someone who, for the most part, blends right in with so many other workers at the facility. Nothing special appears concerning their personal history or activities spent on-site.

"David Wellington," the scientist reads from the dossier as if sentencing this employee to the chopping block. "I almost feel sorry for you." He can feel a smile on his face as he imagines the possibilities of accelerating the grand plan of the Umbrella Corporation.

* * *

**[2 DAYS LATER] [ROCKFORT ISLAND] [04:30 AM]**

David Wellington grumbles as he turns his driver's key in his corporation-licensed pickup truck's ignition. The engine slowly starts up in the humid air, too slowly for David's taste. The engine seems to echo his anger and reluctance to get going again, rumbling slowly like a massive behemoth rising from a long slumber. Eventually David's continued insistence brings the engine to its full power, the truck ready for another period of work. With the engine running, David idles for a minute to think about the things he will do today.

"Let's see," he whispers into the cabin around him while counting the tasks on his fingers, "first I'll go to the main center, load up, take the load to the outpost, unload, come back to the center, load up again, go out again. Somewhere between deliveries I'll have my breakfast. Maybe I'll get back to the center in time for a hot lunch." He shakes his head at that last point. "God, I wish."

With the engine now ready to go, David puts his hands on the steering wheel and ease his foot down on the accelerator. He holds his employee keycard, hanging around his neck by a lanyard, to the automatic scanner to open the door of the garage his truck and his quarters are stationed in. The pre-dawn darkness outside is somewhat broken by the glare of lamps and marked lights along a path leading across solid ice and rock, the garage stationed near the main headquarters of the Umbrella Corporation's Rockfort Island facility. David slowly exhales as he guides his truck out into the open air, a bad taste in his mouth and a stiff sensation in his shoulders from a hard sleep the night before.

The truck's tires rumble and crunch against the ground, passing over broken branches and the occasional piece of fruit that had spilled onto the road in the night. David keeps the truck at a steady speed to stay between the lights as the path winds to in either direction. The screwy pathways the facility uses circumnavigate larger mountains or jungle too dense to break through. This makes traveling safer, but also slower. David keeps his mind occupied on his driving, trying to ignore his growling stomach and hunger for something other than the Umbrella-approved ready-to-eat meal the chefs are supposed to make.

_Oh, shut up,_ David's subconscious tells his desires. _Stop dreaming for what you can't get. Just do your job and you'll be fine here._ Two years of telling himself that has not led David to any better things, something he blames on corporate management. Whoever assigned him to this place probably didn't know him by face, or care much about what lower-ranking workers wanted. So, like every other time when David makes this argument with his inner thoughts, he chooses to just stick to routine and deal with it later.

David gets his truck into the base's central garage without incident, giving a brief wave to the pair of guards doing the early-morning shift like himself. They don't wave back, or even speak to him, as per company policy for Umbrella troopers. Once inside the headquarters, David brings his truck onto a large platform that descends into the underground storage facility. Down there is where David gets loaded in both delivery goods and his daily food and drink supply. The platform moves quickly, driven by powerful motors and anchored firmly to the giant metal shaft that holds it in place. David turns off the truck's engine, hops out onto the solid metal platform, and quickly walks to the nearest set of stairs leading up from the platform to the small break room adjacent to the loading space.

David enters the room to see one of the nighttime truck drivers slumped in a chair with his head on the only wooden table in the room. The older man, who David does not know by name, has scraggly white hair and mocha-brown skin. He wears the same beige-green uniform David does, the back of an identical lanyard to David's own around his neck. David tries to walk across the room's metal floor quietly, the entire space shaped into something like a square by several metal plates being wedged together. The chairs and table are called "business essentials" by the higher-ups, and this other driver is hogging some of them to himself.

_Good for him._ David gets to his employee locker, standing like a stiff mannequin in between two other identical lockers and having his name stamped on a darker metal plaque. _He probably needs a break._ David smirks as he remembers he is due for a vacation starting tomorrow. Nine days of relaxation in a different tropical island, transport to and from paid for by the generous and caring Umbrella Corporation.

David opens the combination lock to find his trucker's uniform hung up and cleaned inside the locker, courtesy of some native Hispanic on the island employed by Umbrella as an indentured worker. On a small shelf inside the locker is a small Umbrella-approved calendar flipped to the current month. Alongside that is David's one allowed personal item; a single printed selfie showing himself smiling on a sun-covered beach as the tide comes in. David glances at the photo for just a moment before he pulls the uniform out and goes into the adjacent bathroom. The space, really just a rectangular box with a functioning toilet and plumbing, gives him the privacy to change from his bedclothes into his daily wear.

As David steps back out of the break room and towards the barracks to get his assigned meal, like all non-indentured employees are supposed to, he notes a few more Umbrella soldiers milling around his truck. By now the vehicle's back has been covered with a green camo tarp, combining with the vehicle's own green paint job to blend better into the surrounding environment. This doesn't concern him too much. So long as they don't try and hurt him, he can just look the other way and get on with his—

The soldiers start walking towards him. David's surprise gives the armed men and women, all covered in matching uniforms, black helmets and goggles, the chance to get close to him. Two gloved hands from two different soldiers grip his shoulders too hard to be a casual greeting, or even some kind of joke.

"David Wellington," one of them says through his helmet in a scraggly male voice, "you will come with us to the Research Division." The soldiers holding him push him away from the barracks and to a separate door at another end of the platform.

David's anxiety rapidly ramps up as he is moved against his will. "What's going on?" he eventually asks these people. "Is something wrong with my schedule today?" He doesn't dare ask about his vacation in fear he will be told the worst possible news for that.

"Your schedule is fine," the soldier at his left tells him as another soldier moves to open the door and lead the way into a narrow corridor connecting the facility's several primary locations underground. "Your latest genetic sampling has been analyzed and requires additional examination."

"Genetic sampling?" David tries to press his feet into the ground and push against the soldier's grip so he can think for a moment. "That's for safety protocol! What is going on here?!"

"Calm down," the same soldier orders as the soldier up front opens a door into another corridor towards an unknown destination. "You are not in danger. A scientist is going to take a second genetic sample and ask you some questions. You will then be allowed to continue your shift as normal."

David's gut does not feel any better from this answer. This is a very abrupt start to what is probably going to be a very long day. The day doesn't get any better when the guards bring him to an examination room he has never seen before. The reason for that is probably the room's basic nature, a hospital bed on wheels joined by a pair of smaller metal carts containing various test tubes and jars filled with various chemicals. The soldiers sit him down on the bed, and then one of them taps the side of their helmet and says something that doesn't go through their helmet. David looks to the door he was brought through as the soldiers start to file back out of it. They take all the test tubes and jars with them, too.

"Stay here, Mr. Wellington," David is told by the last soldier to leave. "The scientists will arrive shortly." The door slams shut after that, all the soldiers gone and David none the wiser to what is happening. Is he sick? He doesn't feel sick, but it might be some strain of disease local to this island. He doesn't remember being bitten or stung by any strange bugs or eating any undercooked food from the chefs. He has a momentary flash of something worse, the word "mutation" dancing in his stomach like a hot potato.

David looks back to the door. He wants to get up and open it but knows it won't be that easy. The Umbrella Corporation is very tight on security and protecting its resources, meaning they leave nothing unguarded. Those soldiers are probably right outside the door, listening in to his every word. That's probably why they took the chemicals out, to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid before the scientists get here.

David looks to the room's ceiling. He doesn't see any video cameras, but he is sure he's being watched. He doesn't put it past Umbrella to have eyes and ears just about everywhere in their facilities. What have they found that prompts them to summon a squad of soldiers and take him away from his job? Why is he, his very genetics, suddenly so important to these people? Why is he being allowed to talk to people he normally never interacts with?

Voices come into the room through the door, muffled to David's ears. The scientists must be coming. He'll get an answer soon.

* * *

**Alright, that's all for now. Hopefully you have enjoyed this first part. Part 2 will be published soon; unfortunately, we don't have a set date at this time.**

**Any feedback/reviews given to this story will be great for both me and "RT86" to see.**

**Draconos is taking off!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, everyone! Here is Part 2 of this story, showing what happens to Mr. Wellington after the Umbrella Corporation takes him for questioning. This part has a lot more mature content compared to the first part, and hopefully that will not make you lose interest.**

**As before, this fanfiction is a collaboration with the user "**RT86**".**

DISCLAIMER: "Resident Evil", and all the characters/places/items connected to that game series, are owned by Capcom. The author and the user "RT86" own the OC David Wellington, and any other custom things mentioned in this story.

**Onward!**

* * *

"Good morning, Mr. Wellington!" The brown-haired middle-aged woman, sporting large glasses that rest on the edge of her nose and bring out her dark-green eyes, greets David with a smile too wide for David's liking when the soldiers open the room's door for him. "How are you feeling today?"

David looks at her employee card and reads the name, "Dr. Millicent Schrovol, M.D., Biology Division". Someone he has never met and probably never would have except for this exact circumstance. The feeling is probably neutral on her end, at least to David's mind. Of course, he doesn't ask that question to her out of politeness.

"Bad," the truck driver answers the doctor with brutal honesty while looking at her wrinkle-free face. "I just got forced out of my work with no idea as to what's going on." His frown does not faze the woman in the slightest, and he is the first to break eye contact.

"I understand this is confusing, Mr. Wellington," Millicent says as David sits up straighter on the side of the bed and stares down at the floor, "but this is a sudden occurrence and must be dealt with as soon as possible. Corporate policy will not have it another way." David agrees with her on that much.

"So, what's the problem?" David asks to spur the conversation along. "The troopers said it was about my most recent DNA sample."

"Yes, yes," Millicent answers with a few nods of her head, "that's the issue. To put it simply, Mr. Wellington, the science team here – well, I'm in that team, so I should say _my_ team – has noticed your DNA has changed very rapidly in the last three weeks. Changed in a very strange way, in fact. So, we're going to find out why that is before anything bad can happen."

"It's already a problem?" David's fingers curl as his heart beats faster in his chest. "That can't be, I would have felt something was wrong."

Millicent is suddenly at David's side, standing just by the bed and carefully adjusting her glasses with a hand. "We don't know if something is wrong yet," she reminds him with a concerned expression instead of her earlier happiness. "We are acting quickly to make sure whatever caused this anomaly is found out and, if necessary, dealt with. The Umbrella Corporation protects it assets, remember?"

David huffs. He does remember, that phrase being one of the first he was told at the initial training seminar before coming to Rockfort. It's worked for him so far, why should this be any different? This problem will be dealt with, and then he can return to his normal life. Unfortunately, David can't entirely convince himself that is correct. Maybe it's because this intense scrutiny has never happened during his time here, but he feels suspicious about this doctor and just why he's been called away from his work.

David's stomach growls loudly to break his train of thought. He blushes, remembering he hasn't had his breakfast yet. If he wants to eat and go back to normalcy, he needs to get on with this extra testing. He's dealt with mistakes before, he can do so here.

"Let's get this over with." Millicent's smile springs back on her face as David accepts whatever fate has befallen him. "What do I have to do to fix this 'problem'?"

"Just stay right there," she answers as she whips out a cotton swab from some hidden pocket in her lab coat, "and let me take a sample. We can do this by a blood test, or a buccal sample." She looks at David's clothed chest for a second. "Considering you sound hungry I would say the buccal sample will produce better results. It's also faster overall."

David nods. He doesn't want to get pricked with needles more than necessary, and he's been poked each time he has given his genes for the "safety protocol". Thinking about drawing that time out by taking some of his blood stresses him without anything piercing his skin.

David notices a small white cotton swab and a plastic petri dish now in Millicent's hands as she steps up to him. "Lay back on the bed and open your mouth, please," she orders, and he complies. She then pops the dish's lid off and puts both items in David's hands. "Hold this for me," she tells him with a quieter voice, "and keep it open."

David tucks the lid beneath the dish using his hands, not looking down to his chest as he feels the doctor's chest get uncomfortably close to his own. He resists the urge to move around as her gloved fingers carefully move the swab up and down against the inside of his right cheek. She presses down against the skin but not hard enough to cause pain. He doesn't look her in the eyes as she maneuvers the swab around for a few seconds.

David can hear the doctor's quiet breathing as she works, a sound he has rarely heard in his life. _This is just a medical test,_ he tells himself,_ just a test._ The immature side of his brain, sensing his stress, automatically starts forming half-baked ideas as to what this might lead later down the road. There is no real chance these fantasies can become real, but that doesn't stop him from thinking about it.

"There, all done!" The doctor leans back and daintily places the swab into the dish. Her hands briefly touch David's as she takes the dish and puts the lid back on. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Wellington," she says with another smile. "We'll get this tested in the lab. You'll have to stay here until we get the results, though." She gives a sympathetic smile to David as he sits up again on the bed. "I'll also ask the chefs to bring you some breakfast."

David watches her leave the room, coat and all, without saying anything. He sees the side of an Umbrella soldier just outside the door, a two-handed gun in his hands. So, he was right earlier about being watched. No, he's being _guarded_. David knows from his time with Umbrella that anything guarded is potentially dangerous, and anything dangerous needs to be contained. But he isn't dangerous to anyone, he's just a truck driver!

_Calm down!_ David tries to slow his breathing, cold sweat sliding down his back. _It's just a test. I'll get cleared, given my breakfast, and go on with my day. And then tomorrow, I'll get started with my vacation._

So, David sits on the bed and waits in the empty room. The moments tick by at strange intervals in his head, the room not having a clock to double-check how long all this has taken. The first big checkpoint to David's clearance comes when the door opens for another trooper to come in. Instead of a gun he is holding a plastic food tray with a few slices of apple, a small bread roll, and a white juice carton. He doesn't appear to notice David's confused expression; this is _not_ the breakfast he normally gets from the chefs. A second later, another trooper comes in with a pistol clearly visible on their belt.

"Your breakfast, Mr. Wellington," the first trooper tells David, placing the tray by the bed. They step back to the second trooper's position just by the now-closed door. David looks at them and silently telegraphs they can leave now. They don't leave, standing at a resting position David sees the guards at the headquarters' entrances take. It tells him, "We're not going anywhere."

Not wanting to cause a scene, David eats what he has been given. It is a very awkward breakfast, the troopers silently watching him from behind their helmets. But the food tastes a bit better than his usual meal. The apple slices burst with flavor on his tongue, while the bread roll is still warm in his mouth. The juice washes it all down, David having it all as quickly as politeness allows him. He doesn't want these troopers to spread gossip about his eating habits across the base, or even to the concentration camp on the other end of the island. That will eventually spread back to him, exaggerated to a crazy degree by people in the intent to get a good laugh—

_Woah._ David's stomach bubbles as his vision swims. He blinks away a sudden rush of fatigue, only for another one to slap him right after it. He burps up some air, bringing a strange taste back into his mouth, some combination of stomach acids and half-digested food and drink. Something about that food is not agreeing with his digestion. Bread and fruits don't taste _this_ sweet.

_Oh, shit…_

The soldiers rush towards David as he tries to get off the bed, fails when his legs give out, and crumples to the floor. He slams his hands down to block his head from impacting the ground, and then tries to push himself back up. His arms don't respond in the right ways, and that fatigue is making him feel woozy. He tries to speak to the soldiers who now stand just by him, but his tongue lolls around in his mouth and doesn't help him proper syllables. The soldiers make muffled grunts that might be words if David's ears were still working.

David falls unconscious before one of the troopers picks him up and throws him over his shoulder like an expensive doll. He doesn't feel his body bounce around as they both leave the room and head for the research laboratories.

* * *

_Blood_. David tastes it in the air and on his tongue. He smells it as he moves around on his feet, his eyes and ears filled up or over by warm and wet gunk or slime. His body shifts around on instinct, pulses through the ground. He twists out of the way of something big just as it walks by him. The footfalls it makes shake the ground and knock David to the ground; it must be gigantic. A groaning noise comes through the gunk in his ears as whatever this thing is goes by. A thick, cloying stench comes from this thing and smashes into his nostrils. He automatically spins away and retches, stomach heaving from the scent. He lasts four seconds before something flies up his throat and out of his mouth.

The act of vomiting causes tears to form in David's eyes. With his eyes covered by the slime, the tears quickly fill his eyes up and make them itch incessantly. When he brings his hands up to wipe his eyes clean, several sharp points press around his eyes and nose where his fingers should be. He draws his hands back in surprise, slowly realizing his fingers are different now. How did this happen?

_Hunger_. David's hands shake as his empty stomach thunders for sustenance. It's too strong to ignore, the hunger is too great. He needs to eat, to feed!

David's arms and legs ripple with strength he never knew he had. The lingering taste of vomit in his mouth propels his hunger to greater heights. He uses this strength to rip and claw at the gunk and get it off. Once he can see his food, he can eat it, and his urges will be satisfied that much quicker. The pain of his sharpened, elongated fingers stabbing through the gunk and drawing blood does not stop him, barely even slowing him down. Hot blood flows down his cheeks along with forced tears as he finally opens his eyes.

The world is tinted in colors and shades David does not fully understand. Colors are sharper, shades are more prominent, and textures are richer than he is used to. There's a lot of red and brown and black in his surroundings, some open field underneath a dark sky. He looks up to see the darkness comes from a series of black clouds, lightning bolts flashing in the air and revealing the ground below with bursts of white-hot light. David looks down to the ground as several lightning bolts flash one after the other.

_Carnage_. Pure carnage. Corpses piled atop each other without care, cut and slashed and gouged and crushed and beaten. The faces David sees are all human, and all frozen in horror. The blood he smelled earlier comes from all these corpses, their life forces intermingling in small streams that trickle down to the ground beneath. He looks at it all, unable to comprehend the level of devastation. His hunger, the ravenous gnawing in his stomach, is forced back from his brain in place of sheer shock and awe.

How did this happen? How did he survive?!

The hunger surges again. It screams, "Eat!" without a mouth and only for David to hear. He doubles over and carefully places his newly sharpened fingers to his gut. He now sees why his fingers are sharper; they have transformed into black claws, each one at least several inches long. His hands are a sickly blue instead of the regular range of human skin color. Purple veins are clearly visible on his wrists, stretching up his arms along with the blue coloration.

The hunger grows too strong to ignore. An animalistic noise comes out of David's mouth as his stomach roars its emptiness out to anything nearby. He whips his head around, senses ablaze and searching for something fresh. These dead bodies do not excite him, they are not the food he instinctively wants. He is so hungry, anything fresh will be fine. His brain simplifies his instincts into single-worded objectives: _Search. Kill. Eat!_

A cracking noise comes from nearby. Something hot and sharp slams into David's backside, forcing him forward. He keeps his footing before spinning around to find out whatever just hurt him. The pain focuses his hunger to an objective his fear-stricken humanity agrees with. _Fight,_ the hunger tells him._ Kill. Eat!_

David sees a human man wearing a bulky vest, pants, and a thick pair of boots. All his clothes are soiled with dirt and blood and gore, and one of his eyes has been gouged out. Still, he holds up a smoking pistol with two shaking hands and stands up straight. His remaining eye glares at David with hatred, but David can smell the sweat on his body. It's a fearful sweat, a sign of his body's fresh quality. He is alive, not dead.

David's humanity desperately scrabbles to regain control as his body stares the man down. For a heartbeat the two size the other up, and then David's hunger grows too strong to ignore. _Fight! Kill! Eat!_

David charges at the man as his mind screams its denial. His new body, his new senses, this bloody battlefield, this crazy duel – none of it can be real. It has to be a dream, a nightmare!

The nightmare doesn't end when David swings a clawed hand at the man, moving faster than he can aim and fire again. The man's face crumples like paper, skin providing no protection for the muscle and bone beneath. The man flies back from the concussive force, but David's other hand surges out like a tentacle and grabs it. He brings the body back to his mouth, now open and slathering with drool at the prospect of a fresh meal.

David's new body relishes in the taste of fresh meat, bones crunching beneath his new fangs and adding solidity to the stretchy muscles and chewy skin. His old mind looks away and tries to wake itself up from this hell. And then, some darker side of David's sanity decides to _make_ him look and feel every little sensation. He then feels the sheer power from this act, eating something weaker to become stronger. It feels horrifying and, even worse, pleasing.

As David eats his kill, clothes and all, his body rapidly mutates into a new state. His muscles bulge out as his skin darkens into a steely blue, and then metallic grey. The veins throb and expand as more blood pumps through them. His heart beats faster to fuel this growth, thudding against his expanding ribcage as if about to explode. The bones in his left hand crack and pop as a layer of chitin overlaps the skin, leaving his claws intact. Nothing David tries to do can stop his body from eating or slow the mutations. Each new thing brings a whole slew of sensations to his brain.

David's blood now feels like it's boiling beneath the skin. As he rips a chunk off his meal's leg – _this isn't a meal, it's a man! _– his vision shifts slightly out of his body. He looks at himself from the outside and sees his bones continuing to pop, muscles expanding and stretching to accommodate. He is also much taller, muscular, and, in certain places, more _endowed_ than before. He looks like a human sculpture, naked and chiseled with expert precision yet still having the two arms and legs and a head of a human man. The similarities make the differences even more damaging to David's psyche.

_God,_ David shouts to himself, _I'm a freak!_ His darker side laughs in his ears, David not knowing where to look at himself without being either disgusted or awestruck. There are parts of this body he would love to keep, pieces he had fantasized about when gripped by lust. He did not expect to have just about all of them put together and mixed with the predatory urges of some jungle beast.

The only thing that David's body does not eat is the man's gun. It is left to fall on top of the gray-skinned corpse of a long-dead human. David's enlarged feet crushes the metal into pulp as he is forced back into his new form. He stumbles away from what he just did, even though most of the evidence is now rumbling in his enlarged stomach. Clarity comes back to him now that his hunger is gone. The strangeness of it all makes him think it's a dream, something he can just close his eyes to and wake up to his normal life. He doesn't want to try and think this is real.

The David sees another creature walking among the corpses. It looks like a corpse as well; skin barely hanging on in some places, rotting teeth, and sunken eyes deep inside blackened sockets. These are all important, but David's enhanced focus sees a familiar red-and-white umbrella logo on the remains of its coat.

_Umbrella is involved in this._ It's a truth David refuses to accept, and it's the last thought in his mind before lightning shoots through his veins and draws him somewhere else.

* * *

The body inside the stasis tube, submerged in a blue-colored chemical mixture, twitches and jerks as an electrical shock forces it out of sleep. Several computer monitors in the same room display the body's physical status and brainwave activity. Heart rate monitors beep faster as electrodes stuck on the body's grey skin dispense their charges. The body's mouth moves to reveal fangs, lips curling as it tries to form words. Luckily for the group of Umbrella scientists keeping watch of both the monitors and the tube, the recording devices placed on the tube's top and bottom are turned off.

The men and women in the rectangular room watch their creation scream its birth cries, shocked into the world with a brutal kicking. Dr. Millicent Schrovol stands in the middle of this group, her glasses reflecting the dim light and shrouding her actual eyes. Next to her stands an older man with graying hair who looks at the tube with a stone-cold neutrality, hands curled behind his back. He, like the rest of the team, sees progress in this humanoid creature. Progress he can use to help both the world, and himself.

"Subject T-H90 is awake, Doctor," one of the lower-ranking scientists announces to the two standing scientists. Dr. Schrovol nods in response. "Shut off the electric charges," she tells that scientist without looking at them. The various monitors and displays change their screens accordingly, the body no longer in visible pain as it floats inside the tube. Dr. Schrovol momentarily smirks as few junior scientists mutter some choice words under their breaths. She doesn't need to look their way to imagine what parts of this Tyrant they are talking about.

Clearly, the rest of the team is just as excited about exploring the subject's full capabilities as she is.

"Congratulations, everyone," the older man tells everyone else without smiling, "but we're not done yet. The suits want good results for this new Tyrant. We'll give them the best we can."

* * *

**Alright, that's all for now.**

**What will happen to the new Tyrant? How will Umbrella get the results they want? Please stay tuned to future parts to find out!**

**As always, any feedback/reviews you can give are great for me and** "RT86**" to see.**

**Draconos is taking off!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello, everyone! Here is Chapter 3 of this story. Here, the new Tyrant is being tested by the Umbrella Corporation in a few different ways. There's not much else to say before we begin.**

DISCLAIMER: The "Resident Evil" video game series is owned and published by Capcom. The author, in collaboration with the user "RT86", owns the original character "David Wellington" and any other unique elements in this story.

**Onward!**

* * *

**[9 DAYS LATER] [ROCKFORT CONCENTRATION CAMP] [14:32]**

"Alright, form up!" An Umbrella Security trooper directs a group of orange-uniformed men and women all sporting the same discomforted expressions and rough exteriors out into an open space. "Come on, get your asses out here!"

The uniformed humans, prisoners in the world's eyes, step out into the sunlight and shield their eyes from the glare. After days in darker bunkhouses with covered windows, or underground corridors made of cold stone and colder wardens, the open air is a strange thing to experience. It isn't entirely open space, though; guardhouses stand tall on the four sides of a chain link fence several meters tall with barbed wire around the top. This place is still a prison to its inmate's eyes.

"Follow me," the trooper orders the group as two other troopers come up from behind the prisoners, leading them forward with necessary force. The prisoners grumble and mutter as they fully enter the sunlight, the sky being the only roof over their heads and not protecting them from the heat. They all walk by another group of prisoners, some shirtless and covered in sweat, doing pushups and jumping jacks by the fence under a guardhouse's gaze. They don't get close to them, and a few of the exercising inmates glare back at their stares as if daring them to come closer. These dares are all the walking group needs to stay in their place.

The troopers lead the prisoners around one corner of the camp and towards the main gate, currently closed. A four-wheel truck painted green and black rests by the gate, its back covered by a beige tarp. A Willys MB jeep painted the same colors is by the gate, a machine gun turret mounted on its back. Two troopers are in the seats and a third one mans the gun. The gun is not turned towards the prisoners, but the trooper is looking their way. The desire to test these soldier's reflexes is not strong enough to do.

"Stand here." The troopers direct the prisoners with their guns and their faceless visages. They shuffle slowly along, forced into a line without care for who stands next to who. A row of orange stands out against the brown dirt and green trees. The Sun beats down on their exposed faces as they stand there waiting for something else to happen. Before anyone can collapse from heat exhaustion, a pair of heavily armored troopers escort a man wearing a flak vest over his fatigue and a black helmet without a visor. He sports a stubble on his chin, a series of badges on his left shoulder below the Umbrella logo, and a glare as strong as any of the prisoners looking at him.

The prisoners know this man as "The Warden". He has another name, but here in the camp, he is the top-ranking officer, with the strength and merciless attitude to prove it. He starts to pace in front of the line, like these prisoners are grunts in the military. Almost all eyes are on him.

"I know you don't like me," the Warden says, a grim beginning to some sort of speech. "The feeling's mutual. But I am willing to at least respect you for your services. You are just some of the people here that keep the Umbrella Corporation alive. Someone, somewhere, is thankful for that. From the recent insurrections and malingering from you all, you don't understand that fact."

"You all say you're tough. Well, I'll believe it when I see it. And I'll see it," he exclaims as he points to the outer jungle, "out there, living in the rough. No guards, no guns, just your brains and your wits. That's what makes people tough, and you all are going to show me it. Do well enough in this exercise and you will be enlisted into Umbrella's Security Division as a trooper."

The prisoner's eyes light up with excitement or widen in surprise. They quickly glance at any nearby troopers, each imagining the chance of wearing that armor and wielding those guns. A few of the prisoners sporting gang tattoos from former days outside the camp share dark smiles with each other. The commander watches this discourse and growing distrust without breaking his character.

"Once you are brought out into the jungle, you will stay out there until sunrise. Any one of you that tries to slip back in earlier, or do some bullshit scheme, will be shot. No favorites, no remorse." The warden reaches into his vest and pulls out a small rectangular box from beneath his vest. He opens it and reveals its contents to the prisoners; several metal collars arranged like small rings.

"Each of you will wear one of these collars during this test," the warden tells his orange-shirted audience. "They will track your location throughout this test. We will know if you try to tamper with them, so don't try it." He pulls one out and holds it carefully in his hand, showing the device's simple structure and metallic design. "If you come back to the base at sunrise with the collar on and activated, you will begin basic training into the Umbrella Corporation's military branch. I'd say good luck, but your skill and abilities are much more important here. Show everyone here how strong you are."

The escort troopers join the first three that led the prisoners out here in putting a collar onto each prisoner's neck. They all click on, some of the prisoners scratching their necks once the troopers appear to be looking the other way. No amount of fiddling can get them off, and they feel constricting around the wearer's throats.

"Alright, you all get on the truck!" The troopers force the prisoners into the truck's covered rear with harsh words. "No bullshit, move it!" The prisoners comply, none of them making eye contact with the Warden. A trooper gives the back of the truck a few hard slaps once everyone is on, flashing a thumbs-up sign to the driver's rear-view mirror. The truck's engine starts up with a chugging roar as the vehicle drives out of the opening gate with its cargo.

The MB Jeep follows closely behind the truck, turret aimed at the larger vehicle's back. The Warden watches them go until he hears a buzzing in his helmet's commlink. He gruffly says, "Report," to whoever is speaking.

"_The tracking chips are activated, Commander,_" a deep Irish male voice states to the Warden. "_Subject T-H90 is ready for deployment._"

"Send it out. Move the cleanup crew in after every target is confirmed dead."

"_Yes, Sir._"

The Warden straightens his back as he weighs the balance of several human lives towards the greater corporation he serves. He turns away from the gate and back to his quarters without looking at any of the other lives he may have to snuff out one day.

* * *

**[ROCKFORT ISLAND FACILITY] [23:35]**

"_We've gone over your reports, Subject T-H90. You did quite well._"

Subject T-H90 listens to the voice of Dr. Millicent Shrovol from outside a windowless metal room. The walls, floor, and ceiling are all the same shade of grey, the light shielded by extra-thick glass. The Tyrant cannot see Millicent, her voice coming from somewhere near the ceiling. It does not look for where she is speaking from, staying still near the room's center with shoulders slightly forward and chest rising and falling with each breath. It stares at a reflection of itself on a window that, in fact, separates Millicent and her grey-haired elder scientist colleague from their creation.

"_You must certainly remember the hunt, don't you?_" Millicent asks, talking into a speaker on her side of the window. "_How it felt to track your prey, hunting them down and killing them. Did it feel good?_" The Tyrant shows no visible answer, not looking away from the window. Both scientists hear barely any sound from their own speakers, so they watch it carefully as Millicent continues to ask loaded questions.

"_Are you looking at the window now? Can you see yourself?_" She waits a few seconds before continuing. "_Look at yourself now. See your body in this state, this relaxed state. This is how we want you to be with us, with people you trust. You trust us because we made you. You trust the Umbrella Corporation because we work for it._"

No response from inside the chamber. The observing man crosses his arms in front of his chest as Millicent wets her lips in the observation room's dry air.

"_Feel the air in your lungs, T-H90. Breathe it in, and then out. That's right, good. Try breathing a bit deeper now._" The Tyrant obeys, raising its shoulders up and back as it continues to look at its reflection. "_Good, that's good. Just keep listening to me._"

"You are certainly taking your time with this test," the man tells Millicent off-handedly. She looks back at him for a moment, uncertain about the real meaning of those words. "I want to make sure things are going right," she tells him.

"I understand your reasoning better than the suits will. The combat tests will matter more to them than this emotional one." The man stares at the subject with growing distaste. "We should prepare another test for tomorrow."

Sarah turns away from the speaker to face the man. "I'll get to that when I'm ready, Simeon. We've been grinding for nine days to get what the suits want. Why can't we get something _we_ want as well?"

The man, "Simeon", says nothing back. Millicent turns back to the speaker and sees the Tyrant has walked a bit closer to the window. Why did Simeon say nothing about it when he was looking that way?

"Stay there, T-H90," Millicent tells the Tyrant. "Keep breathing, but now I want you to flex your arms and loosen the muscles. Get them relaxed for the next time we need you." It raises and lowers one arm at a time, making its muscles bulge and pop out like a bodybuilder's when lifting weights. The rest of its body remains thin by comparison, producing an especially strong contrast when it moves its enlarged left hand.

"Great, that's great." Millicent feels a happy flutter in her stomach as she commands this biological weapon like a pet. "Now, get down on your hands and use your arms to push your body up and down from the floor." Simeon lowers his arms to his sides as T-H90 begins doing pushups, its hands positioned wide from its chest. It starts slowly before sliding into a pattern, but it leans towards its right side because its larger left hand prevents proper balance. Millicent watches it exercise for a few moments, noting the lack of sweat from its mutated skin. She amplifies the volume on the observation room's speakers and hears heavier, deeper breathing from the Tyrant.

"It's been going for so long without a break," Millicent comments as she slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a well-practiced finger movement. "Look at it, Simeon," she directs the man beside her. "It killed several people just hours ago, and here it is now doing pushups like one of the troopers. All without question or hesitation."

"All the Tyrants have been like that," Simeon reminds her, "especially the T-103's. They understood and followed our orders. This one doesn't have to be any different to fit Umbrella's wishes."

"That's just the bare minimum, right?" Millicent asks with a wild glint in her eyes. "The T-103's are the closest Umbrella has gotten to efficient BOW's, yes, but they still have their flaws. If we could overcome those flaws with T-H90, it would the biggest leap forward in years. To think we almost let that delivery driver go on vacation before we double-checked the genetic samples. We could have missed this opportunity!"

A few moments of silence follow Millicent's comment. The Tyrant continues to do pushups, Millicent continues to watch it, but now Simeon switches between watching T-H90 and Millicent. That wild light in her eyes has grown brighter, as has the sound of her breathing. "You always get too attached with your work, doctor," he dryly comments.

Millicent glares at Simeon, her cheeks a light shade of red at her little secret being found out. "Who says I can't be attached? I spoke with David Wellington before he was made into this, I have the right to comment on what he has become. He is a much better person now; you agree on that much!"

Simeon closes his eyes in the way thousands of old men have done when listening to irritating children. "T-H90 isn't a person, Millicent, no matter how human it looks. _You_ should know _that_ much." He looks at T-109 again and widens his eyes. "Look," he exclaims while pointing at the window, "it's adapted again!"

Millicent looks and sees T-H90's body is now properly upright over the ground. Its hands are now equally positioned to each other, the smaller right larger and the left shrunken down without changing its shape. It now moves up and down like a piston, pumping its body and breathing heavily. It looks at the window as it exercises, viewing itself with the same neutral expression since it was first brought into the room.

"Incredible," Simeon comments before Millicent can say it. "Something this simple can cause a change in its form. This is the most precise level of adaptation I've ever seen!"

"It's a sign of progress," Millicent agrees. "We are onto something great here. We just have to keep pushing forward."

Simeon gives Millicent a questioning look. "We need to put some limits in place–"

"No limits, not now." Millicent gives Simeon a serious look that shows she has thought about this for some time already. "Limiting T-H90's testing will make it weaker in the end. That's what happened with the T-103's." Her certainty prompts Simeon to not voice his objection, because what she says is at least somewhat true. "It has so much capability, too much to try and limit now. We'll need to test it as much as we can, however we can, before we give it away."

Simeon sighs and shakes his head. "Don't forget who you work for, Millicent," he tells her, implying both the Ashford family that officially owns Rockfort Island and the elite in Umbrella's corporate division. One of them will be here soon, he's certain of that. He feels the same urge to test and learn that Millicent does, but his is more balanced by rational fact and the reality of his job. Things that have helped him survive for so long in the Umbrella Corporation. Heaven willing, T-H90 will be worth all the blood, sweat and tears that have been put into it.

* * *

His body moves up and down, hands pushing against the floor with his new strength. He watches himself exercise with red eyes, working his muscles, feeling his arms and chest burn with tension and stress and some pain. These feelings provide purpose to his acts, satisfaction to his baser instincts. He feels stronger, much stronger, a good strong that he wants to keep.

His mind is also strong, enough that he can remember who he used to be. A weaker man once had this mind, but this body is all his own. Going back to the old body is something he hates thinking about, not that he has had much chance to think since he first woke up from that nightmare. The scientists and doctors here have been pushing him as hard as they can, each new test showing something new about him to both them and him.

Still, he cannot stop certain flashes of his old self from sliding into his current thoughts and disrupting his focus. The intrusive faces take the forms of his parents, a worker at Umbrella named "Matt", and a woman that once made him kneel for the chance of a kiss. He does not feel upset about not remembering them more: he is disappointed that he cannot expunge them entirely and focus on right now.

He knows a lot of things now. His body is made of mutagenic particles; he can change those particles with a concentrated effort into different shapes; he can make his body stronger, faster, tougher with a focused thought; this mutation wants to grow stronger with him, feeding off his old human thoughts of self-empowerment; these people fear what he is and do not fully know that he can think for himself. Most importantly, these scientists do not appear to understand that he is able to think for himself.

Doctor Schrovol's voice comes through the speakers, telling him to stop his pushups and stand on his feet. He does so with his abdominal and pectoral muscles burning from the exertion, looking at his body and waiting for another order. Doing what others want is something he is used to, a "gift" from his old life's memories. The amazement to his new body is still there, his old mind still not fully accepting reality. The mutagenic properties of his flesh, bones and blood feel alien even as the virus fuels his heartbeat and helps him draw and expel each breath of air.

Doctor Schrovol orders him to return his hands to their original state. He raises his hands closer to his face and looks at each finger. He sees the engorged purple veins within the grey skin, his hands not damaged by pressing against the metal floor for so long. The virus whispers this is correct, this rapid recovery is good for him. It will help him do what he needs and what others want from him. It will help him survive.

He focuses on his hands and the shifting flesh that makes them up. He pictures how he first remembers his new hands, a smaller right one to an enlarged left. The virus moves at his direction, working with him instead of obeying his command. He is not strong enough to command his body; that is far too strong a challenge. An equal challenge is understanding that the shifting of his bones and muscles is not a bad thing. The virus's constant comments groom his senses into a different state of mind, new elements being brought forward as older, more hateful memories are gently slid back.

His momentary daydreaming stops when he feels the thrill of completion race through him. The satisfied tone in Doctor Schrovol's voice is the extra bit of encouragement he needs to keep going, keep learning, keep testing himself so he can do what these people want. He looks back at the window, feeling he is watched from some space beyond these four walls. This makes him feel uncertain. His reflection briefly changes to match his uncertainty, showing the grinning, blood-soaked visage of a musclebound brute that can end the lives of his testers and laugh in triumph. He blinks, clearing his thoughts as the doctor addresses him again, and his reflection returns to normal again, the image still in his head and ready to strike.

He hears the doctor's order of being escorted to a "presentation", that a "Lord Ashford" will be observing him. His past interjects that "Lord Ashford" is not a good man, using the colorful adjectives "crazy", "insane", and "bat-shit jerk" instead. He notes this without much care, keeping the past where it belongs as a part of the wall opens to reveal three soldiers with drawn grenade launchers. David can smell a chemical inside them, something the virus rejects getting near. Something to keep him in line, his memories reason.

They look at him with varying emotions, and he looks at them with a practiced neutrality. The human's scents betray their inner thoughts where silence and proper posture might deceive other humans. He breathes the varying aromas in with the processed air of this room, and then he realizes they _fear_ him. All the humans here, prisoners and soldiers and scientists, are afraid of him.

A shard of what might be a consciousness, placed somewhere in his evolving brain, gleefully giggles at this truth. Maybe "Lord Ashford" will show the same fear when he presents himself? He wants to find out as the soldiers lead him out of the metal room and down one of the many identically designed corridors to his next test.

* * *

**Alright, that's all for now.**

**How will Alfred Ashford deal with this new Tyrant? What will T-H90 have to do to appease this Umbrella elitist? Stay tuned to find out!**

**As always, any feedback/reviews you can provide will be great for me and "**RT86**" to see.**

**Draconos is taking off!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, readers! Here is Chapter 4 of the story, and a return to the brutal side of "Resident Evil". You have been warned!**

**To clarify something, I meant the "Lord Ashford" or "Sir Ashford" as ALFRED, not ALEXANDER. That was a mistype on my part, and I apologize for any confusion this has caused.**

DISCLAIMER: The "Resident Evil" series of games is owned and published by Capcom. The author, in collaboration with the user "RT86", owns the original character "David Wellington" among other unique elements in this story.

**Onward!**

* * *

**[ROCKFORT ISLAND CONCENTRATION CAMP] [THE NEXT MORNING] [1:22]**

The words, "Good morning, Lord Ashford," are given by "The Warden" to the blond-haired, blue-eyed heir to the Ashford family legacy as soon as he steps off the jeep that brought him, and a decontamination team wearing biohazard suits, from his private island mansion. Every soldier and scientist not focused on a task in the courtyard bows or nods to him as he moves with a stiff gait, his face sternly observing the activity around him without comment. The open space is bathed in a crescent moon's glow, mounted searchlights providing sharper clarity to the central space of the yard. That space is cleared of prisoners or equipment for this early-morning test, and each guard on the adjacent sentry towers armed with anti-B.O.W. grenade launchers as well as their regular machine guns.

Down on the courtyard itself is T-H90, contained inside a square container with plexiglass walls used to transport Tyrant-sized specimens. Two Umbrella troopers also stand by the container's control panel, bearing the same equipment loadout as the tower guards. Simeon, Millicent, and as many members of the science team as could be spared or were willing to participate all stand in a group beyond the edge of the light, near the entrance gate to the camp. "The Warden" stays by the jeep to have a conversation with the trooper driver. Several other troop convoys, and one truck specially designed to carry bulky loads, all rest parked nearby for when the staff that took them to get here need to go back home.

Alfred quickly spots the large Tyrant in its "cage". He sizes the B.O.W. up for a few seconds before turning to the assembled scientists. They shirk under his direct gaze, whispered rumors becoming more real now that their Lord is here in the flesh. Several of them warily look to the prison walls, feeling the gaze of the convicted on the backs of their necks. How many prisoners are up this early in the morning, watching from behind their barred windows? Are they also afraid for what will happen?

Alfred gives Simeon and Millicent the hardest glares, black rings visible beneath his eyes. "You had better match up what your reports said," he informs them in his heavily accented, haughty manner of speaking. "Interrupting my sleep for anything less is worthy of strict punishment."

"Yes, Sir Ashford." The two leading scientists show unwavering courage in the face of a sleep-deprived Umbrella executive. The bags under their eyes are not as prominent – they can thank steady intakes of coffee for that – but they can tell the goal of satisfying their Lord will be a long and arduous one. They share a worried look as Alfred turns to face the Tyrant again, not knowing what kind of tests their creation will be put through.

"So," Alfred asks the scientists without looking at them, "I just tell the Tyrant what to do, and it will obey me?"

"That's how we have conditioned him, my Lord," Millicent steadily answers. "Do you need anything else prepared before we begin?"

Alfred thinks about this for ten seconds. He then commands, "Bring me two workers, immediately." The orders are quickly passed down to the troopers, two of whom race into the prison and drag what Alfred wants into the courtyard. The "workers" they bring out are two Hispanic men who shout demands in Spanish that Alfred does not respond to. Simeon tightens his jaw at this display of superiority but says nothing while the troopers move the men in front of Alfred. Questioning how much a superior really knows about things is a harsh misdemeanor, after all.

"Open the Tyrant's cage. And," Alfred quickly asks Simeon, "what was this one called again?"

"The Tyrant is classified as T-H90, my Lord."

"Thank you." Alfred turns away as another trooper quickly opens the "cage" with some button pushing. T-H90 steps out almost instantly, moving a bit slower once it feels grass against its feet instead of cold steel. It looks around with slow movements of its head, the searchlights shining on its body and casting sharp shadows against the fence and ground. Almost every human that can see it watches it closely, but only a few minds among the group know its true capabilities.

"T-H90," Alfred shouts to the Tyrant as "The Warden" yells at the grunts, "I am Sir Ashford. I am your master for these tests. You will do exactly what I say!"

The Tyrant stares at him and does not move. The lower-ranked scientists instantly begin muttering amongst themselves; one pulls out a small notepad and pen from their coat pocket to record what happens next. "The Warden", his conversation done, uses his helmet's commlink to send quick orders to the troopers in the towers.

"I command you to… jump!" Alfred's order is met with confused silence, but that does not deter him in the slightest. "Jump as high as you can, right now!"

Two snorts come from the scientists as T-H90 shows no response. They then stop talking as the Tyrant squats down and tenses its legs, its eyes never leaving Alfred's. An audible "Whoosh!" of air is heard as it springs upward, faster than the searchlights can track it. It soon impacts the ground with thundering force, putting the full force of its impact on its legs. Those limbs buckle and nearly crumple from bearing the full weight of the upper body, but they do not break. The attentive in the crowd, while covering their eyes and faces from bits and clumps of dirt knocked skyward from the landing, notice T-H90's legs suddenly expand out, muscles bulging out to contain the explosive force without actually exploding.

Alfred hums in satisfaction, brushing the dirt off his uniform as T-H90 stands back upright. It steps out of the small crater caused by its landing as the searchlights realign themselves on its body. The echoes of the impact ring in the open air, a distant flock of birds cawing and screeching as they fly out of their resting spaces. Everyone stares in stunned silence until Alfred loudly clears his throat.

"Release the peons," Alfred orders the troopers restraining the darker-skinned men in place. "Let's see how 'precise' T-H90 really is." The troopers let go of their quarry, but the two men don't try to run. The searchlights block them from seeing a good escape route, and they also fear the guns and grenades of all the troopers around them. One shot can kill them, and no one here will really care.

Alfred gestures towards the workers with one hand. "T-H90, you are to kill the man on your left. Then, you are to beat the other man with the first one's corpse until I stay otherwise."

The leftmost worker shouts, "_Que diablos?!_" when he hears this, backing up several steps as his test companion scampers away from him. T-H90 looks at both men, crouches forward slightly, and then charges like a bull towards the ordered target. The man spins around to run away, but T-H90 catches up to him and grabs him with its enlarged left hand. It raises that hand up and slams the man into the ground, his scream cut off as his face meets the dirt. He is brought up, and thrust back down, again and again, his cries of pain continuing as his body is further and further broken.

The second worker shouts, "No, _por favor_, no!" as the courtyard fills with the sounds of a beatdown. Petrified with fear, his entire body shaking as he barely manages to stand, he cannot force his eyes away from the scene. The first worker falls silent a few seconds before T-H90 stops pounding him into pulp. It then looks at the corpse, unseen hands moving the searchlights to where the Tyrant now stands. The high-intensity beams clearly show how broken the man's body is, all the limbs twisted to unnatural angles and the face caving inward. Blood drips down to the grass as the stench of death slowly spreads over the courtyard.

"_Ayudame!_" The second worker loses it at this point, screaming in his native tongue as he falls to his knees. "_No queiro mirror! Ayudame!_"

Desperate for salvation, the man leaps towards Lord Ashford with outstretched hands as tears stream from his face. Alfred glowers at his approach, but the Tyrant gets between him and the approaching peasant. Holding its improvised weapon in its right hand, T-H90 picks up the living worker with its left and throws him into the searchlight's view. He rolls for a few moments before stopping, his moan changing into a terrified screech when he sees the Tyrant right above him.

The scientist holding the notepad stops writing down notes, not willing to look away from this second beating for a millisecond. Blood flies every which way, half-formed cries for help coming between each whack of two bodies being forced together. Just like before, these cries are not answered by any soldier or scientist in the courtyard. The prisoners certainly don't speak up; they might be the next victims of Lord Ashford's insanity.

When the only sounds heard are the _thocks_ of bones hitting bones and various _squelch_-like noises as ligaments and muscles are torn loose, Alfred calls out, "Stop!" to T-H90. The Tyrant dutifully stops, its hands coated red by fresh blood. No trooper or scientist watching breaks their composure as T-H90 drops the bodies by each other on the ground, but discomfort shows itself on almost every visible face. Alfred, in a sign of great delight or insanity, gives a pleased smile.

"Brutal _and_ effective." Simeon and Millicent perk up a bit at this comment from Alfred. "That's a start, I suppose. But I want to see more."

Simeon pulls out a small walkie-talkie and says, "Cleanup crew, move in," into it. This brings out the biohazard suit-wearing crew, each member of the four-man team carrying washer decontaminators connected to tanks strapped to their backs. Two of them slide large black bags over the corpses after the other two spray the bodies with the chemical mixture. They then spray the bags, and the ground around the bodies, with the mixture to really erase any risk of contamination.

Millicent and Simeon watch them work with practiced motions, even though they are just a few feet away from a B.O.W. Millicent imagines they are shitting their pants right now, silently urging each other to work faster and get out of sight. T-H90 just watches them with slow breaths, recovering from the exertion of killing two men with its bare hands.

As the crew pick up the bags, two men for each, and scamper into the shadows to dispose of the corpses, Alfred's eyes look around the courtyard again. He stops at two of the troopers standing near the scientists. "You two," he orders, "step into the light!" The soldiers glance at each other, freeze up, and then quickly dart to where Alfred wants them before he decides to kill them for insubordination.

"Trooper on the left," Alfred says as T-H90 turns its look to the new arrivals in the light, "you will be Trooper 1; you on the right will be Trooper 2. Both of you draw your sidearms now; T-H90, stay put until I give you an order."

The troopers pull out automatic pistols and hold them in both hands. They keep their eyes on the Tyrant but do not raise their guns at it. They don't want to risk sudden death by aggravating it. Alfred smiles again at the trooper's visible fear; even with helmets covering their faces, the soldiers know a monster when they see one. He gives his next order: "Troopers, fire one shot each at T-H90."

Millicent's throat locks up as two other scientists both whisper "The _fuck_?!" at the same time. The soldiers reluctantly do their duty, firing two bullets into the Tyrant's chest. The bullets sink into the skin but don't knock it back or spill any blood.

"Turn to face me, T-H90." The Tyrant does so, the searchlight bathing its skin in artificial radiance. The bullet holes are tiny, but still visible. Alfred nods to himself and motions to the soldiers while looking at the bullet holes. "Trooper 1, give your pistol to T-H90."

"Lord Ashford, we haven't-" Simeon starts before Alfred whirls on him. "This is _my_ test!" he nearly shouts at him. "My test, my rules. I decide what we do here!" Simeon yields to Alfred's demand with a sour expression. The two men turn back as the named trooper, walking slowly towards the Tyrant, holds the front end of his pistol out to be taken. T-H90 looks between the soldier and his weapon several times, the tension in the air joining the lingering stench of decontamination spray.

The tension breaks when T-H90 grabs the pistol with a rough yank. The trooper jumps back, clutching his hand and muttering curses through his helmet as he races back to his colleague. T-H90 turns its focus on the gun in its hand, moving its fingers along the sides like a baby touches a new toy. A transmitted order from "The Warden" brings several troopers previously watching from the sidelines up and in front of Sir Ashford and the scientists. They draw their own guns and aim them at the Tyrant, waiting for the almost inevitable moment when everything goes ploin-shaped.

Simeon and Millicent each almost have a heart attack when the see their creation slowly use its fingers to turn the pistol the right way around. "He knows how to hold it?" Simeon says for them both. "We didn't teach him that!"

"Good, good!" Alfred's happiness is purely his own as the troopers arm their weapons with audible clicks. The warning is obvious, but Alfred doesn't seem to care or mind. His eyes are locked on the Tyrant holding an armed weapon like a person does, something never accomplished before by the B.O.W.'s. "Now shoot Trooper 1 in the head."

The Tyrant moves the gun almost too quickly to see. The gun goes off before the soldier can move, the helmet's visor shattering as the bullet travels clean through the skull. The man falls on his back, hands flying to cover his face. "My eye!" he screams in an Chicago accent, amazingly alive after the shot. "Agh, my fucking eye!"

"Bradley!" The second trooper rages by dropping his pistol in place of his machine gun. He screams, "You fucking monster!" as he unloads the loaded magazine at the eight foot-tall monster in front of him. Each bullet slams into T-H90's skin, and a few shots hit its face. The combined effect knocks it back a step. Bradley's own final cries of pain before he collapses are swamped up in the noise.

A few troopers in front of Ashford tense up and prepare to fire; Alfred's cry of, "Do not fire, idiots!" are ignored. T-H90 grunts once as it raises its left hand to shield its face, an impromptu defense all the scientists observe with wide eyes. This means the Tyrant's right hand goes unobserved until it fires two more shots at the still-screaming trooper. The man's war cry becomes a choked gurgle as the bullets puncture his face and neck. He collapses while clutching his throat, dropping his gun and unable to stop the blood from flowing down his uniform.

"Drop the gun, T-H90! Now!" Alfred's commanding voice has the redeeming quality of making even a Tyrant obey it. The weapon is left on the ground, too close to try and get for anyone not having a death wish.

Millicent looks at Simeon's face, now pale as a ghost, and feels pretty much the same way. The older scientist quickly says, "Cleanup crew, move in," into his walkie-talkie without breaking his tone or voice. The crew quickly pick up Bradley's unconscious body and stuff it in a bag, while the unidentified trooper's corpse is sprayed like the other two. The killer watches them as its body slowly regenerates like all Tyrants do, removing all traces of the bullet's marks.

"The Doctor can have Bradley's body for himself," Alfred declares as the crew head back to the jeep. No one is pleased by this. Alfred then turns back to face Simeon and Millicent with a cold smile. "I've seen what I wanted. When can T-H90 be ready for deployment?"

"In the field?" Millicent swallows a lump in her throat and forces herself to maintain eye contact. "A week, minimum."

Alfred frowns at that. "I suppose that will have to do," he begrudgingly agrees. "Send me the reports you've made in the meantime and put the Tyrant in cryogenic storage. Good night."

And just like that, Sir Alfred Ashford takes his leave. No final wave of his hand, no formal dismissal, just a "Good night" and the lack of his presence on the courtyard. The scientist holding the notepad records something with frantic speed before shoving both it and the pen back into their coat pocket. A few troopers and scientists look to the prison once Alfred's red uniform is swallowed up by the darkness, the searchlights still trained on T-H90 as it also watches Alfred go.

What do the inmates think about all this, the assembled Umbrella staff wonder. They never heard them speak up or object…

"Fucking madman," one of the troopers near Millicent grunts, his raw voice loud enough to get through his helmet. "Those guys weren't enemies to the corporation." At the same time, Simeon hears, "Crazy prick!" directed at Alfred from a young Chinese neurologist. The two don't comment on the audible discontent among fellow members of Umbrella, a discontent they feel burning in their hearts against a man they dare not offend.

After a moment's respite while the private jeep begins its journey back to the mansion, everyone's minds shifts back to the tasks at hand. "The Warden" directs his troops while Simeon and Millicent direct the science team, and the courtyard quickly becomes alive with activity. T-H90 is led back into its thankfully undamaged container, several troopers walking around it as it is loaded onto the bulky transport truck and strapped in place. The science team get on their convoy and try to not look at each other's faces. The few times they do, they just see the same worry and fear in their own expressions.

The prison remains silent as a tomb as the troopers in the watchtowers resume their normal sentry duties under the moon's icy gaze. The forest's nighttime creatures do not add their song to a slow breeze that whispers in their ears.

* * *

**[22:15] [CRYOGENIC STORAGE FACILITY, CHAMBER 3-A]**

Millicent knows she shouldn't be doing this. She also knows she may not get another chance. The thrill of doing something alone, with the hopes of being unseen, is a pleasure she rarely indulges in as part of a team. She enters in the code for the chamber door, glancing in either direction for anything following her. Seeing nothing, she pulls open the reinforced door and moves inside, mostly closing it behind her.

The chamber is placed on the lowest level of the Rockfort facility, far below the actual mansion where Lord Ashford resides. It contains the darkest of the island's secrets in subzero clutches; extremely mutated specimens of proto-Tyrants in Umbrella's continuous goal of perfecting human evolution. Now, an actual Tyrant rests among them.

Millicent shivers from the cold, but she does not plan to be long. _Just one glance, one look, that's all._ She quickly approaches the chamber's largest object, a stasis tube connected to a forest of wires and pipes that transmit various things to and from the frozen subject. She briefly glances at the control panel that can open the tube back up on command. Unfortunately, that command has not come just yet. But it will come, she is sure.

She walks right up to the tube, taking careful steps forward until she gets as close as she dares. Even frozen he towers over her, more than eight feet of mutated body mass to her comparatively simplistic human size. This meekness digs into a repressed desire of Millicent's, locked beneath scientific inquiry and creativity. These past ten days have let her see every corner of T-H90's body. He is her sculpture – in a metaphorical sense, of course – and she basks in the personal pride Simeon had spoken against.

Damn it, she tells herself once again, _is_ attached to this Tyrant, but she can control it! She knows her place, and she won't break the rules to satiate her aching hormones.

_Even though he looks so nice…_

She slowly tilts her head down from his face to his chest, especially his prominent eight-pack, then his thin waist, her body growing hotter each second. She reaches his crotch and notices the lack of a penis. When she thinks back on this quirk, she realizes she hasn't seen him aroused at any point during the tests. She chastises herself for even thinking that is possible: The Tyrants aren't human, so they don't have human feelings. They just obey orders.

A fantasy bubbles in her gut, what little morals she has left unconsumed by logic forming a depraved scenario. _What if I gave it the order to…?_

The fantasy breaks at the sound of something clinking in the chamber. Millicent snaps away from the tube, breathing hard. She feels warm inside despite the room's colder temperature. Something runs down her pants leg, causing her to blush tomato-red. _What am I thinking?!_

She repeats that question in her head as she looks back up to T-H90's face. Paranoia makes her stare in disbelief at the red eyes that look back at her, somehow frozen open. She leaves the chamber and shuts the door with that image burned into her mind.

Inside the stasis tube, something twitches. A new, instinctual urge starts to form.

* * *

**Alright, that's all for now.**

**It seems T-H90 is changing in unexpected ways. How will this be dealt with, for better or worse? That will come in later parts.**

**As always, and feedback/reviews will be great to see for me and "**RT86**" to see.**

**Draconos is taking off!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello, everyone! Here is Chapter 5 where, as some of you may have guessed by how Part 4 ended, there will be sex between a certain Doctor and a certain Tyrant. So yeah, explicit content ahead.**

**Please understand before we get started that I am NOT an expert on writing erotic fiction at all. But, the "Resident Evil" series is known for its violence and mature content, so I took this as a challenge from** "RT86" **to make.**

DISCLAIMER: The "Resident Evil" video game series, and all elements included in it, are owned and published by Capcom. The author, in collaboration with the user "RT86", owns any original characters and custom elements included in this story.

**Onward!**

* * *

**[EIGHT DAYS LATER]**

The world returns slowly to T-H90. He feels the air grow warmer around his body. Several hissing noises fill its ears as the cramped space it rests in opens out. The warmth that comes in feels good to him, better than the cold of sleep. As the hissing noises fade away, he opens his eyes and looks around. He sees the same chamber walls he remembers from before, but there is less light. The air smells different, some copper tang in the air that brings a flashback of a distant dream.

He hears breathing from his left. He looks there to see Doctor Millicent Schrovol standing by the tube looking at him. It takes him a few moments to recognize her because she looks so different from before. Her glasses are gone, one of her eyes is swollen shut, her clothes are in tatters that barely cover her body, and her skin is covered in cuts and bruises. One of her hands clutches a long gash that trails down to her waist. Her body looks frail, her confidence mostly gone. Her one working eye glints in delight when she sees T-H90 stand up and ready from the stasis tube.

"You're alive," she slowly states with breathless happiness. "That's… great." Her feet move strangely as she walks towards him, turning at odd angles and not holding her up. She grunts in obvious pain as she regains her balance and stares into his eyes. He recognizes the fire inside them, like his determination in his tests. Is there going to be another one now?

"Listen to me," the doctor commands between heavy pants. "This place has been attacked by a traitor to Umbrella. The virus inside you has infected or killed turned everyone else that didn't escape. I'm the last human left." She winces and grips her side a bit harder, her face showing a flash of pain. He has questions about this but does not ask them as he looks closer at her exposed body. Her clothes cover her breasts and crotch, but her arms, legs and feet are completely open to his view.

He twitches his lips. An urge from some point of his cold sleep bubbles back to life. He has not seen her like this before. He feels… different.

Millicent looks at him again with the same determined fire as before. "I know you can understand me. You're smarter than the other Tyrants, and you keep getting smarter." She takes another slow breath. "But it's too late for me. This is my final order, TH90."

She stumbles right up against him without breaking eye contact, her blond hair moving in front of her face and then aside again. She stands as tall as she can and, in an act that gets his full attention, places her hand on his chest. Her fingers are light, each individual tap sending a spark through his muscles.

"I want you to kill the traitors that did this," she orders as her eyes start to water. "Is that clear? Find them and kill them all."

He nods. He understands. This is an order he can follow. _Find the traitors. Kill the traitors_. He does not completely understand why she looks sad while she gives this order, but he will obey it like the rest she has given. Right now, he allows someone he recognizes to be close to him, tiny bits of happiness bubbling in his mutated heart. The fact this someone is injured does not concern him.

"Hah… thank you, T-H90. My little Tyrant." Tears start to flow down Millicent's cheeks as he strokes his chest with her dainty, delicate hands. "And now, goodbye."

She thrusts her other hand into her coat pocket, pulling out a black-colored pistol. For a split second he is confused; he remembers holding a similar weapon before, but why is she holding it? She turns the gun towards herself and shoves the front end into her mouth with both hands. She chokes and squeezes her eyes shut as her fingers try to squeeze the trigger.

He lashes out before the shot goes off, grabbing the gun and pulling it out of her mouth. The loud _bang_ rings in his ears for a moment as Millicent slumps to the ground. His grip on her hands makes her slip off the ground and hang in midair. Then she regains her senses, realizing she does not have a bullet through her brains. He squeezes her hands with his enhanced one, feeling her tiny bones beneath his sharpened fingers. She tries wriggling herself free as she swings back and forth, held aloft by his strength alone.

"Stop it!" she shouts at him, confusion turning to anger because she is not dead. "Give me the gun! I need it!"

He does not understand this as he watches her move to and fro, the pieces of clothing sliding around to reveal tantalizing glimpses of the naked flesh beneath. He sees her hairless skin, her lithe frame showing a little fat around the hips. His lips twitch again as that strange urge grows stronger than his hunger.

His right hand feels her fingers try to move, the digits becoming soaked in sweat that pours from beneath her skin. He lets her slide out of his grasp, but he retains hold of the gun. She falls on her buttocks as he crushes the metallic weapon with his fingers. She groans and places a hand on her gash, clearly in pain. He drops the broken gun without looking away from her. Her pain feels wrong to him. His chest burns with anger, or something like it that he can't describe, at seeing her like this.

_The traitors killed people. They cannot do this._ But what can he do against it? He is strong, fast, and tough, but is that enough? No. _We must grow stronger._ A way to do this shows itself in the injured body and broken mind of the human in front of him. A flash of his old self comes back, when he first met this woman and felt a certain way towards her motions. A _good_ way.

He breathes out, letting the urge flow freely. He breathes in, smelling her increased fear and stress. And beneath that, the same growing need inside himself. The need to _Breed_.

_Breed,_ the virus urges his hormones. _Breed and grow stronger._

He stomps towards her, grabbing her head in his hand and lifting her up. Her protests go unanswered as he roughly places her against the nearest wall. His muscles tense as he feels his desire spread to the space in between his legs. The instrument beneath stirs to life as Millicent looks at him, lost as to what is happening.

"What are you…?" She stops talking when she sees and hears the space between his legs open like a flower's petals, skin and muscle blooming outward to reveal the inner stem. The "stem" here is actually a thick, vein-covered, red-skinned penis. Millicent's jaw drops as the organ extends forward, farther and farther as the moments tick by. When the penis's foreskin peels back on its own to reveal an even darker patch of red, both Millicent and T-H90 smell the sharp tang of Tyrant musk.

The virus's instincts ramp up the Tyrant's hormones as much as Millicent's stunned silence tells him this is a good thing. _Breed and grow stronger._

"Impossible." Millicent's voice cracks as she stares at the now three-foot long penis. "T-This can't be po–!"

He thrusts his hips forward, forcefully pushing his tool into her mouth. She lets out a shocked "Hurk?!" at this invasion, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. He feels her tongue and lips along his tip, automatically pressing against him as she tries to accommodate his girth. He pushes forward a bit more while she tries to cough it out. He lingers, relishing the warmth and softness of her mouth as her objections just send vibrations down his tool. His higher thinking fades as he pulls back, and then thrusts even harder. Her head bumps the wall and stays there as he tries to feel even more of her mouth.

She desperately starts slapping his legs and crotch. That brings him back down from his euphoric high long enough for him to pull out completely. Saliva trails from her lips to his cock as she gasps for air and coughs up some mucus. Various half-formed curses come out of her as she covers her mouth and nose with one hand.

"What the fuck?!" Millicent shudders as she looks up at him, her words coming through her hand as tears start to form in her eyes. "Why did you do that?! I don't want to eat your dick!" Her words do not match a new energy he sees in her face, the anger covering the same urge to _breed_.

He gives a deep grunt from inside his chest. Her eyes widen at the sound, her eyebrows sliding up and down with each new thought inside her brain. Her face slowly turns pale as she comprehends what this all means, until her skin is ghostly white. "Oh, God," he hears her mutter, "you're horny."

So that's the word for this urge: "Horny". He digs his feet into the chamber floor, his hands pressing against the wall as he grunts again. The sound says what he wants without words, what he is trying to hold back from doing without her approval. His former life as David Wellington does not have much memory of making decisions for others. The virus compounds this through instinct that does not dictate how it should act, merely acting as it chooses. With these two feelings mixed together, T-H90 is able to hold himself back for a few more moments.

Millicent parts her fingers slightly, her face turning bright red. "You want to… impregnate me?"

His claws dig into the wall and make loud screeches as his hips push forward. She turns her head away. "No, don't! You'll kill me with that thing! Stop it!"

She takes short, quick breaths as he leans down closer to her. "Don't get any… closer…" Her anger slowly fades as she breathes in more of T-H90's musk, the raw stench already in her mouth and now clogging up her nostrils. He sees saliva start to build up in her mouth, her tongue not able to form the words she wants. He sees her eyelids droop as she raises the hand formerly over her mouth towards his penis, inching her fingers achingly closer.

"Don't… don't do that…" She sounds so docile now, her fingers so close. "I can't… can't…"

She touches his penis with feather-light movements. The organ throbs in response, a sign of his delight as a thin mist sprays out of the very tip. She breathes this in and instantly suddenly slams her head against the wall behind her as her body shudders and spasms, a twisted smile flashing on her face. Her objections become moans of pleasure and pain, the last bits of her clothing slipping off and falling to the floor. He sees her small and round breasts and the shaved slit between her legs, small tufts of blond hair around the vaginal lips. Liquid seeps from the slit; his penis throbs again when he smells its spicy aroma.

When he next presses his tip against her face her lips linger on the exposed skin. She freely inhales his musk, her eyes glazed over with that same smile. He grunts again, urging her to accept his need. He must _breed_. He presses his hands against the wall, forcing his tool forward so she can't escape.

She gives the pink tip a tentative lick, and then another, rubbing her tongue along his surface. Then, in a sudden burst of energy, she outright grabs his cock. He pauses, feeling her muscles tense up as she holds him in place.

"So hard…" Millicent coos as her fingers slide up and down the slick instrument, freely inhaling his sexual scent now. "So thick!" She slowly opens her mouth and wraps her lips around the exposed tip, bobbing her head up and down and breathing through her nose. He scrapes the claws of his right hand down the chamber wall as a few drops of pre-cum spurt straight down her throat. She swallows it in loud gulps without pausing her motions. She pulls her lips away with an audible "pop" before his pleasure grows too strong, smacking and licking her lips to get any excess juices.

"So sweet!" He looks down at her and finds her looking up at him with bloodshot eyes. There's a fire in her eyes now that makes his heart beat a little faster. He sees her need, the urge to _breed_ growing inside her. But instead of instantly fixing this need, she places a hand on his chest and tries to push him back. Confused, he does not budge as she tries again. Her smile quickly flips upside-down as the fire changes to pure anger.

"_Stand back!_" she suddenly screams at him. "_Give me space!_" He strides back on his long legs, bringing his hands to his sides. She pushes herself off the ground, a stream of drool going down from her reddened lips to her chin. Her hair sticks to her face and back, her deep breaths hot enough to condense in front of her. Her eyes stay on his penis as her smile changes into several different expressions. He doesn't recognize all of them and doesn't care; his need is too strong now.

_Breed her! Breed and grow stronger!_

"Fuck it." He barely hears her say that, but her voice slowly rises as she starts to rant while still looking at his member. "Fuck it. There's nothing left. Nothing at all." Her legs shiver as more of that spicy scent flows out of her vagina. "I've got nothing to lose anymore…"

Before his eyes he sees something holding her back slide out of her slit along with her hormones. Her body sweats even more as her own scent grows almost as strong as his musk. She spins around to face the wall and raises her rear up towards him. She spreads her legs, reaching back with one hand to open her pussy lips and let her juices flow out faster. Finally, she looks back at him with the happiest smile he's ever seen on her face.

"Breed me, you monster of a man!" she yells to T-H90, offering herself to him. "_Kill me with your cock!_"

He races forward and grabs her sides with his hands, the claws pressing against her skin as he lines himself up. She giggles at first, and then moans in pleasure as he rubs his penis against her pussy. Once he is lined up, he shoves the end inside. She moans as he grunts at a higher pitch, turning her head back to the wall while he pushes more of himself into the warmest and tightest place he has ever been inside.

"So… big!" He feels her heartbeat through her inner walls as he continues to push, stretching her open to accommodate his size. He pulls her towards him to fill her up even more, digging his length as far as he can.

"Fuck," she cries out, "move slower! Ow! Ow! Ow!" He almost doesn't register her voice and shaking movements against the thunderous pleasure all through his body. When he finally does, he slows down and then starts to slide out, her vaginal walls rubbing against him again. He feels her shaking lessen and smells her juices smeared on his penis, a sign that she seems to be enjoying this at some level.

He pushes forward again, slower this time. Her "Mmmm… Yes!" is a good sign as he begins to move in and out at a steady pace, her sounds at the end of each forward motion clues for how he is doing. It takes some trial and error to find the point where she feels more pain than pleasure, but he eventually finds it. Her body does not fully envelop his penis, but that is not an issue he wants to fix. He focuses on the pleasure of breeding with a willing mate, the virus giving him the energy he needs to keep going harder and faster.

In a flash, he gets an idea as to how this could feel even better. He grabs Millicent's waist and raises her off the ground. As she gives a shocked"Eep!" he fully pulls out of her, spins her around so she faces him, and thrusts her back down on his dick. She grits her teeth and lets out a low whine for three seconds as he holds her down, now fully inside her with his tip touching some barrier beneath her belly. Then she screams "Aaaagh! Yes!" as her body overloads from the forceful entry. Her spicy-smelling juice coats his length and spills onto his waist as she rides a sudden orgasm.

He raises her up, using his enhanced strength to keep her on him as she breathes in. He pushes down and she squeals as her pussy walls tighten around him. These sounds repeat themselves with each cycle; up, down, up down. He quickly starts pumping her on his cock, her breasts bouncing about with rock-hard nipples as she rises and falls. He stands tall, a giant of a man asserting his dominance through the urge to _breed_.

"Oh, fuck!" she shouts, heedless of her volume or language. "Use me! Use me for your cock! I'm your broken little cocksleeve!"

He thrusts even harder at this, grunting with the exertion as she rides a small orgasm. He feels her pleasure through her body and smells her raw essence with each breath. He now grunts every so often, the pleasure rising to critical levels as he continues pumping into the doctor.

Millicent gains enough strength to draw her legs up and wrap them around his chest, tugging him even closer. She looks into his eyes, grinning when she isn't moaning from the sensation of fucking a Tyrant. "I'm close!" she tells him, "I'm so close! I'm going to… to…!"

He can feel it inside her, the rising energy that leads to another burst of those spicy juices from her body. He feels his own pleasure rising along with hers, a growing storm that threatens to overwhelm him when finally unleashed. He is enjoying this too much to worry about that, slamming his cock into his "sleeve" and wanting to _breed_ her. She shows her own enjoyment by grabbing her breasts with her hands. She violently gropes them and pinches her nipples, almost driving him over the edge from the sheer carnality. He has some idea about what she is doing, and he _loves_ it.

"Ooooh, fffuuuuck!" Millicent groans as she crosses the threshold along with the Tyrant. She screams, "_Cumming!_" as he feels a large amount of something flow from all over him and into his cock. He roars as the storm strikes home, his seed shooting into her deepest holes in a steady stream. He presses her as close to him as he can, and she locks his legs in a vice around him to hold her tight.

"Aaahaaahaaaa!" Millicent laughs as she arches her back, kneading her breasts to extend her pleasure for as long as possible. Yes! Fill me up! Fill me with… orgh?!" She wriggles on his dick as she feels his seed, through some crazy maneuver exclusive to Tyrant sperm, travel from her womb into her stomach, and then up her throat. With a, "_Blaagh!_" she spills the stream of seed out of her mouth and nostrils, the stench shocking her brain like a thunderbolt.

At that moment, the Tyrant and the human both feel the effects of the T-Virus in their bodies. The mutagenic properties reach for them both through their copulation, forging connections between them at the genetic level. Their brains allow these changes to happen, unable to question them at the speed they occur. The union of human and Tyrant flesh and hormones is absorbed into the T-Virus. It adapts to it, the unique strain inside T-H90 changing even further through filling a human womb with itself.

All Millicent Schrovol and T-H90 feel is pleasure so strong they don't care about anything else. The urge to _breed_ has led to this, and they do not regret it. They are male and female, mates in the most primal kind of love. But it's not enough to satisfy the virus.

T-H90 works to pull Millicent off him, his instincts in full control. Her grip around him holds for a few tugs, but she eventually yields. Her mind swims in a semi-conscious state, pain forgotten in the afterglow and the warmth all inside her body. She comes back a little more when T-H90 lowers her mouth back to his semi-erect cock and slides her lips over it. He does not let her breathe before he starts forcing his dick down her throat.

Millicent can only repeat "Bluh! Bluh! Bluh! Bluh!" as her mouth is used as another sleeve for her Tyrant's mutated dick. She shuts her eyes as glops of white, thick Tyrant sperm splatter onto her face and drool uncontrollably spills from her mouth. She grabs his cock with her hands and pumps along with his thrusts to urge him on. All she can think of is sucking, licking and pumping this thick cock in her mouth, stretching her lips forward as he slams into her throat.

He quickly feels his pleasure grow again, faster this time from seeing the smart doctor that tempted his old human self now sucking his cock like an animal. Another roar escapes his mouth as he thrusts into her mouth once more, his tool going so far down her esophagus it nearly reaches her stomach. She feels his dick pulse, the seed rushing down the length and into her mouth before it blasts out into her body.

"Guck! Ack! Gork! Gluck, gluck, gluck, gluck!"

Millicent tries to swallow all the sperm she can, gulping it down on autopilot as T-H90 continues to pull at her neck. The pain she feels leads to one last, mind-shattering orgasm as her lungs burn from lack of oxygen. Before she completely falls into oblivion, she feels T-H90's cock sliding out of her mouth with a squelching "Pop". Semen spilling out of her mouth, Millicent suckles as much of her Tyrant's life juices as she can before his member escapes her grasp.

She teeters back and forth, not feeling the warm semen sliding down her chest against the greater warmth in her belly. She feels so full she doesn't want to move, for fear of spilling some of the precious cargo already travelling into her womb. Her mind's eye travels into her womb where, even now, sperm and egg cells are joining together and transforming into some new organism. Something that will grow inside her body until it is ready to see the world for itself.

Claws grip her head. She focuses on T-H90's face again, hearing a softer grunt vibrate through her body and warm her even more. Her painfully stretched lips make a dopey smile as the warmth starts to burn, especially around her head, as her skin sweats profusely. It takes a colossal effort to raise her hand up to touch the claws holding her steady, supporting her while she takes her last breaths.

She whispers words with a cum-soaked tongue and scarred lips, gibberish to her ears but a heartfelt confession in her heart. For the tiniest of moments, she feels that he understands what she means. Then, she feels nothing at all.

* * *

T-H90 lets Millicent's body go once she stops breathing, rigor mortis already making her limbs freeze up in a splayed posture. Tyrant cum coats her face and sops out of her pussy into a small pool between her legs. Her breasts, the nipples and areola rubbed raw, glint with the same excessive sweat on the rest of her body. Her eyes are wide open, staring into the face of Death without flinching.

He looks down at her, the result of his needs as his flaccid cock retracts back inside him. He knows she is dead, her aroma mixing with his to create a unique scent to mark their _breeding_. His vision swims as he remembers who this woman was when alive, even back to when he was just David Wellington. All the times she has spoken with him, all the tests and all the close moments, has led to her housing his sperm in her womb. He knows through the virus – _his virus_, he now understands – that she will be a good host to his seed.

What happens next is something he does not know. But he is not afraid to figure it out.

He turns away from the impregnated doctor with pangs of regret and hope, complex feelings he recognizes from absorbing Millicent's spilled juices from her orgasms. _She used me as a tool,_ he reminds himself,_ and now she became MY tool. We're even._

He wrenches open the cryogenic chamber's door to reveal the outer corridor. A few blood splatters are on the walls, that copper stench much stronger out here. His dreams as he became a Tyrant come back in full, abhorrent detail. _Umbrella is involved in this. The traitors did this. I will find them and kill them. And then… I'll make sure this nightmare ends._

David Wellington, now T-H90 in body and mind, leaves his greatest work behind to pursue his final mission.

* * *

**Alright, that's all for now.**

**What will David do next with his new form and increased intelligence? How will he complete his mission in the midst of the Rockfort outbreak? Who will be face next? That will come in future chapters.**

**As always, any feedback/reviews you can give will be great for me and **"RT86" **to see. Was this at least "okay" for erotic fiction?**

**Draconos is taking off!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello, everyone! Here is the final chapter in this story. T-H90 searches for a way to escape, and has to face a few more challenges along the way. There is also a Resident Evil reference or two dropped in here for you to find.**

**Not much else to say, really. There will be more Author's Notes after the story itself.**

DISCLAIMER: The "Resident Evil" game series is developed and published by Capcom. The author, in collaboration with the user "RT86", owns the custom characters and elements mentioned in this story.

**Onward!**

* * *

**[ROCKFORT MANSION RUINS]**

**[A FEW HOURS LATER]**

Rotting corpses meander on two or four legs. Sunken, gray eyes devoid of life search for the living. Rotting teeth gnash into human bodies, no respect given for the choking gurgles and terrified screams of the victims. A great fog shrouds the thoughts of each individual piece in place of a single set of directives; _Search. Infect. Spread._

David feels this fog's effects over his eyes and tries to blink it away. It does not fade so easily, hanging at the corners of his vision and constantly creeping inward. Its hold is not permanent, but the extended effort of scattering the fog away builds with each new door he opens, each new scene of methodical organization or carnal butchery. The Umbrella Corporation's two sides are shown to David as he wanders what used to be the home of Lord Alfred Ashford. He doesn't like either side alone; putting them together is only a further aggravation.

Conflict grows thicker the further up into the mansion he goes. Individual or small groups of forces from either side engage their enemies in brutal melees. David does not feel the humans here require his help; he had not known these people when he was a human, so why should he care about them now?

_Find the traitors. Kill the traitors._ But where are the traitors? How long has the traitor's attack been happening? How much of the devastation and death David sees is from the people he was ordered to kill? These questions linger in his thoughts as solid points against the primal senses that push his mutated body towards different sights and sounds. As he sees more and more of his home – "home" being a generous word – be destroyed, he feels a growing urgency to escape this island.

This brings several more questions to bear: the vehicles Umbrella has here; how dangerous it is to take them; how long you would need to get somewhere; where that somewhere might be. These unanswered concerns race each other around and around David's thoughts and prove useful in keeping the T-Virus's effects from consuming him completely.

_I need to get out of here,_ David tells himself, moving faster when he sees natural sunlight at the end of a branching pathway. His enhanced heart thunders as he smells even more blood in the air, mixing with burning wood in his nostrils. When he fully steps outside he sees the smoke from nearby fires stretching into a clear daytime sky. The Sun and its light provide no beauty, only highlighting the blood and guts spilled across ornate carvings and sculptures of a small outdoor gallery. The stone images did not react to their new appearances, some sporting crimson robes while others had limbs blown apart from explosions.

David hears audible groans getting louder as he walks through the gallery. As he reaches the corner three infected humans, moving and groaning like the classic horror-movie zombies, shamble as a group from the opposite direction. Lacking any greater coordination than not bumping into or tripping over each other, they each wear an Umbrella trooper's uniform with different bite and gouge marks. The infected see David at about the same time he notices them, but he does not stop or slow down for them.

The zombies look at David with some semblance of intelligence behind their fogged eyes, the T-Virus that made them both connecting at an instinctual level. David does not feel this connection, so he feels confused when the zombies move to either side for him to pass by. They do not attack or menace him as they do the uninfected; when he looks back at them, they stand together and silently watch him leave. Why would they do this for him?

The virus in David's brain provides an answer after a moment's consideration: _The strong command the weak. We are strong._ David takes this answer as truth, unable to conjure contrary evidence. Still, it feels weird to be this strong after working as a "weaker" person for several years.

_We will learn._ David sees the wreckage of a helicopter in the distance, the vehicle burning on a helipad near the sparkling ocean._ We will grow stronger._ Human figures stand near the helipad as the wind carries the sound of gunfire to David's ears. Between the mansion and the helipad is a curving path large enough for a jeep to pass through, moving around various large trees too great to cut down. As a delivery driver David drove along several paths like this one, and this path leads to what might be a way off the island.

He starts running down the path.

* * *

**[A FEW MINUTES LATER]**

Wooden platforms rest above the ocean water of a relatively well-hidden dock with attached helipad to the island's south. The poles that hold the platforms up sink deep below the ocean's surface as the pounding waves slam against them incessantly. The burning helicopter becomes more of a landmark now than a beacon, a sign of what the traitors have done to this place. David emerges from between two trees and into a small battlefield already filled with the same conflict as the mansion had.

There are more zombies here, but they are joined by other infected creatures. Several large dogs with cuts on their bodies race between overturned crates with short barks and high-pitched yelps, slobbering as they run faster than the zombies. At the back, moving amongst the zombies but not with them, is a gaunt humanoid giant taller than David and sporting a single extremely engorged arm. At the end of that arm is a hand as big as David's head, fingers dragging against the ground as its tiny head bobs lazily back and forth.

The gunfire from before is louder, more precise in David's ears. He hears steady _rat-tat-tats_ of machine guns, broken every so often by louder _booms_ or sharp _cracks_ from weapons he cannot see. All the infected here travel towards the gunfire, the scent of blood, dead flesh and burning metal mixing with a salty tang from the sea. Leaving those creatures to fight by themselves, David looks for a way to escape. He searches along the wooden platforms for a motorboat, a smaller helicopter, anything like that. A few metal boxes big enough for him to stand inside have nothing but crates in them, some of them open and their crates used to try and block the path toward the gunfire.

David quickly runs out of options after what feels far too short a time. He resorts to skirting near the gunfire for what he wants. By now the infected he saw before have all moved further forward, some of their number dead on the ground. The infected dogs David sees ooze black blood from their transformed flesh; the upper half of a zombie tries to crawl on mangled hands towards one of the dogs, mouth gaping open with the urge to eat.

David looks on this and feels only contempt for the zombie's hunger. All it knows is to move and eat like an animal. He is more than that, even if the same power inside him also drives this cadaver to act beyond death and without legs to walk on. A motion with his claws cuts the zombie's head from its torso. Its struggles end after that, and David leaves the twice-dead body to rot on its own. Both sides of his new mind agree that this was the right thing to do, and then discard it in favor of what is happening around the next corner.

David passes the helicopter's wreck, the metal still alight as some fuel inside it readily cooks the outer shell to keep itself alive. There is no possibility of using it to escape. With that option gone, David goes back to the group and follows their progress. The gunfire still comes from around the corner, the chance for escaping still over there. But the way there is paved with death, as David sees with one shambling zombie amongst the group.

As David observes, the zombie attempts to turn across the corner around a large rectangular shipping container and to a smaller corner of the docks hidden behind a sharp slope. Instantly a hail of bullets slam into its chest, staggering it and scattering ichor along with bits of flesh. At the next moment one of the loud _cracks_ sounds and the zombie's head explodes in a cloud of black blood and bone fragments. The other infected pay no heed to the headless body, pushing it into the water as they try to do what it failed to achieve.

David watches a few more zombies fall to the unseen assailants before his curiosity grows too strong to ignore. He advances into the remainder of the group, pushing aside the one-armed giant as he gets up to the corner. The giant looks at him with some spark in its small eyes that David takes to heart. It knows he is stronger than itself without doing anything. _The strong command the weak._

David sees several Umbrella soldiers standing in a line, guns aimed at him. Bullets instantly impact him but do not push him back. After a few moments of this the soldiers realize what they are shooting at and stop firing. David cannot see their faces through their helmet's visors, but the lab-coat wearing man just behind them is instantly recognizable. The old scientist "Simeon" blatantly stares at David with wide eyes as his face turns white. So, he remembers David from before. He might know a way to leave the island.

The sharp _crack_ of an unseen gun sounds just before David feels something sharp pierce his left shoulder. Simeon starts shouting to a space behind and above him immediately afterwards, his words not clear enough for David to hear against the groans of the infected pressing into his back. They all want to push forward, driven by a mindless desire to reach these living people and spread their contagion. He holds them at bay for now, but they will break past him eventually.

Another _crack_ rings out across the docks. David hears the hum of a bullet fly very close to his ear, and then rip open some part of a zombie just behind him with a loud squelching noise. He sees the glint of a black object rest just inside the broken upper window of a two-story warehouse farther back from the soldiers.

"T-H90!" Simeon's voice shouts across the docks towards David. "I am Simeon Belwert, co-head of this facility's science team. I am one of your creators! You will obey me!"

David does not answer. Simeon's frown deepens slightly but he maintains his composure as he points towards him – no, to the infected _behind_ him, the ones he holds back and whose moans grow in volume. He feels more of them clump together, the large giant's groans standing out less than before.

"Kill these infected behind you," Simeon orders David while still pointing at the near-mindless masses behind the Tyrant. "Keep us safe from these monsters!"

David looks at this man, one of the people who tested his new body. He remembers him standing beside Doctor Schrovol as the head of the team. What he said just now confirms that status is correct. The determined glare Simeon sends David confirms a much darker fact, too; that Simeon only thinks of David as a tool, something to be used until not needed and then put away until needed again. Doctor Schrovol had thought the same way, but she also had an attraction towards him that could not be suppressed.

The smiling face of that doctor, that woman who grew to love her work, flashes before David's eyes as he stares into Simeon's face. Compared to her, Simeon appears less powerful and commanding over him. Love, a human emotion, holds sway over David even as he realizes what he is thinking. He does not want to obey this man, fighting against the urge to satisfy the demands of his superiors.

_He is not stronger than me. Not anymore._

Simeon shouts more words at David, most likely some command or demand for him to carry out, but he does not focus on the words. The soldiers keep their guns trained on him, a sign they still fear him. They might even kill him if given the chance. He doesn't want to die, not now or ever! He is too strong to die, stronger than a human, than this man who treats him like a toy!

David's lips peel back to reveal his fangs. The T-Virus pumps faster through his veins, sending energy and strength and _power_ to his organs. The heavy fog spreads over him and he welcomes it, washing himself in the primal urges and the whispering commands he shares with the other infected. For a few heartbeats he feels the presences of each of the "monsters", tiny fires that smolder inside the greater sea of biological impulses.

_Infect. Spread. Become stronger!_

David roars, a thunderous noise that rolls around in his chest before it leaps from his mouth. The sound ignites the other infected into action. The one-armed giant roars in response, and then the rest of the horde howls. They understand what David wants more than the humans do. David feels their bodies and minds against him, moving with him as he steps forward. Then, he charges towards the humans with his new speed and strength.

The horde acts as one with their Tyrant. Infected dogs scamper by and around his feet, barking furiously as slobber flies from their open jaws. The thundering footfalls of the one-armed giant come from close behind him, the creature surprisingly fast for its misshapen appearance. Zombies try to keep up as Simeon shouts a command to the soldiers in front of him, the remaining toys he has left to order around.

The guns add their force to the horde's general noises. Bullets impact flesh or shred through skin. Two of the soldiers wield louder and more explosive shotguns compared to their fellow fighters. The shotguns make the dogs and zombies fly backwards and their bodies tear in half by the force of the buckshot. David, at the front of the line, takes a shotgun blast straight-on in the upper chest and it winds him, making him stop as pain spreads through his body. But it is only a temporary pain, his blood and muscles recovering quickly and creating extra layer of skin to protect his vitals.

David moves towards the shotgun-wielding soldiers first. One of them sees him coming as he is loading more shells into the gun. The sight of a Tyrant charging at him causes him to drop his shells and fumble in his motions. He snaps the gun up and fires once more without targeting, hitting David in his protected chest. This time David does not slow down from the force, the pain he feels instead pushing him to strike before he feels worse.

David swings his larger arm down in an arc. His claws slice through the armor with mild resistance, and then the inner skin without any at all. The man lets out a gurgling scream as he is shredded into three pieces from one blow. His gun falls to the ground as blood flies out of his body and onto David's skin. The hot liquid, the copper scent of spilt blood, shuts David's higher thinking out. Instinct takes over completely; the T-Virus guides him along with the other infected as he whirls to face the rest of the firing squad.

_Kill! Kill them all!_ It does not matter if these humans that wear Umbrella Corporation uniforms are the traitors or loyal members like David once was. They are hurting him, and they are keeping him from completing his mission. For that they must be killed, and he goes to this task with primal fury. He feels pain and pleasure as hits to his brain, his body moving as an extension of the virus's will.

"Fall back!" a voice yells out amidst the carnage. "Get to the boats!"

David breaks out of his furious trance, realizes he is standing over the headless body of a soldier even as an infected dog digs its teeth into the torn neck, and thinks on what he just heard. _Boats… that's what I need._ A glance around the battlefield reveals several dead infected, including the one-armed giant, around the bodies of all but two soldiers and Simeon. One of these two holds a very long rifle that he suspects fired those powerful _cracks_ that blew the zombie's head off before.

David moves to follow them with determined steps, leaving the horde to feast as they choose. The human trio moves towards the last warehouse on the docks, whatever is inside kept in there by a metal gate that takes the place of a front door.

The other soldier running with Simeon, all of them going on the wooden platforms to the final warehouse, first notices David coming. "The Tyrant is still following us!" he shouts to the others as they all continue running. David feels the wooden boards beneath his feet bend under his weight but does not care about them breaking.

"Then stop it!" Simeon yells without looking back. "Use the grenades!" The soldier pulls out an egg-shaped object from his belt and flings it at David. The object explodes just as it hits the ground by David's feet. Fire and shrapnel fly into him, making him cry out as he feels his flesh burn up. He stumbles to one side, almost falling into the water but righting himself by flailing his arms around.

The soldier repeats "Shit!" over and over as David sees him fire his gun wildly. Bullets fly around David without doing much damage. The second soldier drops to the ground and readies his longer rifle to fire. Not wanting to feel that much pain from a single shot again, David lunges towards the two as his legs spontaneously grow extra layers of muscle.

The soldier who threw the grenade is shoved aside, falling into the water and out of David's interests. He then crosses his arms in front of his chest, tilts his body down and keeps his hands in front of his face. Not able to see in front of him, David feels a bullet smash into his hands and break a few fingers. He then gets on top of the soldier and dives at where he thinks he is. The full weight of his body slams into the wooden platform, breaking the wooden boards and crushing something softer and squishier as well.

The water feels cold to David's body, freezing him up for a few moments as he sinks beneath the surface. It takes that much time for him to remember swimming as a human child, and his new body is much more robust and heavier than what he remembers having. His want for oxygen makes him move harder against the water's pull, urgent to breathe air again. A series of metal bars graze against his back as he swims under them, moving by a dark object bobbing on the surface. He then breaks the surface and takes a giant breath of air in a darker space than he was last in.

Footsteps come from wooden platforms above David's head. He frantically moves his arms and legs to keep his head above water as Simeon walks by right above him. The Tyrant's muscles strain as he reaches for the boards and grabs them, but Simeon is already past him by the time he gets a good grip. He pulls a few boards out of the platform to create a hole for him to climb through. It takes him three attempts to pull himself out of the water again.

Simeon curses as David rests for a second on the platform. "You need to obey me, damn it! I helped make you with Millicent!" David looks up towards Simeon's voice to find him standing near the back end of a small white boat with two levels of floors. Several instruments and equipment along the top and sides are not important to David; all that matters is the fact this is a boat. A boat he can use to escape. And Simeon is about to board it _and escape instead._

Simeon shakes his head, keeping his eyes on David as he moves to the opposite end of the boat. "She always liked you, too much to be normal. I figured she would release you when shit hit the fan." He then puts a hand on his chest. "I want to live, okay? I want to get off this damn rock and live free from this mess. I won't kill you if you let me leave."

David stands up, heaving breaths as his anger at Simeon comes back to him. _He lies,_ the virus whispers in his brain, and David accepts this without question. Simeon has treated the soldiers like objects, believing he is more powerful. Without these people to protect him, he is just one man. David is more than that now.

With a single bound, David jumps onto the boat's deck, slipping on the polished surface as the boat sinks a bit deeper into the 's cry of, "No! Please!" goes unheeded by David as he leaps at him with bared claws and fangs. He grabs Simeon in his hands as he breaks through the wooden floor and into the water once again. Simeon thrashes about, trying to escape until David rips him in half. The man's face freezes in a screaming expression, bubbles trailing out of his mouth as blood flows into the water. David lets the two halves go to float on their own as he swims back to the surface.

David feels some satisfaction for personally ending Simeon's life. _He used me as a toy to please someone. Now I broke him like a toy to please me._

Breaking the surface once more and climbing up the hole he made earlier on the platform again, he kneels on the dock and rests. The battle is over. He has won. The small boat still floats nearby, untouched by the attack and subsequent destruction. It is his way out; he can take it anytime. He can take it right now, in fact.

No. Not just yet. There is still something he should do. Something in his heart calls him back to the mansion one final time before he can escape with the confidence what he has done as a Tyrant is correct.

* * *

The Sun is higher in the sky as David moves back into the mansion's corridors. He sees more infected creatures walking around in their search for uninfected flesh. He enters the artificially lit corridors without incident, the infected in his path letting him pass on their own accord. They recognize he is stronger and obey him. He likes that the more often it happens, enjoying the power he never had in his human life. No humans wander around here, either dead or escaped by some method he has not seen. This allows him to focus on his desire, calling him back to the deepest levels of the mansion.

The first real obstacle to David's desire comes in the form of another infected – another Tyrant, in fact, stalking the halls and moving its head slowly around as if searching for something. It has the same grey, naked skin and human-shaped body as David, but with white eyes instead of red and layers of hardened, rock-like flesh over its arms and knees. A series of dark red veins spread along its arms, one of its hands transformed into a fingerless spiked mass. It stops when it sees David and does not react at first, nor David to it.

The two Tyrants look at each other, trying to comprehend each other. David never saw another Tyrant while being tested, the one-armed giant at the docks being the closest similarity. But he can feel the power from this one, raw strength contained within flesh and bone without much concern for intelligent thoughts. It is a close replica of David, and he feels fear from seeing it. This could have been what David became had fate played out differently.

The new Tyrant suddenly turns around and walks away like David does, still searching but not looking back towards David. David waits until this creature is completely out of sight, his thoughts jumbled with the discovery he is not the only member of his kind here. Could this other Tyrant be an ally, or an enemy, in the future?

David's desire calls to him again, his heart reaching out to it once more. He travels down, down into the lower levels of the ruined laboratories. He sees no further infected or Tyrants, the grisly remains of different bodies no concern to him anymore. He knows what he wants.

Just as David enters the corridor he wants to be on, a quiet gasp comes from near the center of the path. An uninfected man and woman stand near each other, the woman's sharp red hair reflecting in her red vest and brightly colored clothes. The man has a dark blue shirt over a yellow shirt, brown pants matching his smooth brown hair. They stand between him and the object of his desire.

The man notices David after the woman and instantly pales. "Shit! Another Tyrant!" He grabs the woman's arm and shouts, "Run for it, Claire!" while jerking her down to a splitting path of corridors. Their feet pound against the metal as they run away from him, the woman glancing back once to check if he has moved. David listens to them go without pursuing them. They are not in his way. They are not worth his time.

The door he wants to enter is fully open, and he stoops down a bit to enter. The colder air of the cryogenic chamber runs along his skin, heightening his senses as he looks towards where his desire urges him. He sees the same machine that he once slept in, the same control panel for that machine, and then the thing that drew him back here.

The body of Doctor Millicent Schrovol, the woman that offered everything to him, is still splayed out on the floor like he last saw her. But her body lies inside a larger cocoon of fleshy material that sticks to the metal surface. Her eyes are also closed, a peaceful smile on her lips. He can't see any part of her form, only the features of her face pressing against the cocoon's walls.

She is alive. He feels some spark of life from inside her, the thing that drew him back to her from across the island. Now that he is here that desire turns to eagerness. He knows something is going to happen very soon, and that he will want to see it. The connection he felt when they joined together keeps him here, waiting and ready.

Millicent's eyes slowly open, glowing white around gold irises and black slitted pupils. Her smile grows even brighter when she sees David looking at her. That emotion reaches deeper than David expects, and he does not know what to do. David's urge to _breed_ starts to return, but fades once he sees Millicent start to tear herself free from the binding flesh. Her smile doesn't change in the slightest as she shifts around until the flesh gives way. Small streams of clear liquid flow down from the tears to the floor, the same spicy aroma that drove David wild before filling the chamber in a few seconds.

Millicent stands up by herself. Her new body is no longer human, skin replaced with small brown scales that turn blacker around her chest, large purple veins stretching out from her breasts and across her torso. Her face is the clearest sign of her former humanity, save for the white irises and lack of pupils. Those eyes glow with their own light as she takes in her surroundings. She steps out of the cocoon with swift motions, the scales spreading down her body like a reptile and covering everything he can see. Several ropy lengths stretch down from her brow in place of free-flowing hair, the largest lengths reaching the bottom of her neck.

Keeping eye contact with David, Millicent places a hand on one of her black-scaled breasts. A short squeeze of that breast leads her to lightly moan, her voice melodious to David's ears as the outer armor yields to her soft touch. Her other hand goes up to her face as she rubs her smooth cheek with a quick stroke. Her fingers sport tiny black claws that press against the scales, tiny webbings of flesh connecting them together. A harder squeeze at that breast causes her to hiss in pleasure as the entire breast splits open like David's loins did. She draws her hand back to reveal a bright pink heart wrapped in layers of muscle, engorged with purple veins, and protected behind a few bones of her new ribcage.

David feels _pride_ grow in his own heart when he sees Millicent open herself this way. _He_ caused this, this is _his_ genes at work, and Millicent clearly enjoys it. That pride stays with him as the breast closes back up again, skin resealing itself shut with barely a sound. Millicent then comes up to David, her feet clicking against the metal as she walks. Her head is on level to David's shoulders, the look she gives him through her thin eyelids enough to excite him. She places her head against his chest and listens to him breathing. One of her hands slowly rises and presses against his shoulder, rubbing the area in circular motions.

"_My love…_" David hears Millicent's voice in his head, the doctor speaking with a barely concealed passion as she listens to his heartbeat. "_My breeder. I see why you like this body, this power._" She looks up at him and grins, revealing fanged teeth like his. She licks her long, thin tongue over them with a slow, sultry manner that David finds alluring, a free hand moving down to her belly and pressing against it.

Millicent is strong now, David realizes. Strong as he is. They can escape here together on the boat, leaving this destruction behind them. They can show their strength to the world, as they both want to do. And maybe, perhaps if they show their power to the right people, they can become even stronger.

* * *

**And that's the story!**

**I want to thank "**RT86**" for working with me on this, and their enthusiasm for making this story a possibility. It has been a challenge to write, but it was also fun to do.**

**I may return to this story with a sequel at some point. In the meantime, any feedback you can give will be great for me and "**RT86**" to see.**

**Draconos is taking off!**


End file.
